


Tell Me What You See

by Naturelover422



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Brotherly Love, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Self-Destruction, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naturelover422/pseuds/Naturelover422
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being referred to as 'fat' on more than one occasion, a miserable and insecure John reacts with a drastic form of self-punishment. What happens when discreet not to mention harmful antics blatantly unfold in the open and things fail to turn out as planned? </p><p>Set in 1965. Rated M for language and general darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm a Loser

**_“When ‘Help!’ came out. I was actually crying out for help. Most people think it’s just a fast rock and roll song...but later, I knew I was really crying out for help. You see the movie: he -- I -- is very fat, very insecure, and he’s completely lost himself.” –John Lennon_ **

* * *

 

Lennon could hear it already as he neared the exit of yet another building that had unkindly housed them. Sounds of fame. Sounds echoing the exasperating, undesirably fake, lonely, miserable lifestyle that was fame. Sounds mirroring and repeatedly bringing to light, everything the rhythm guitarist saw himself as and strongly wished he no longer stood for. Reminders were everywhere he turned. The fans. The screams. The cries. The madness. The pandemonium. All of it, once capable of sending deep tingles of adrenaline dancing through the entire base of his spine, no longer held the desired effect on him. The accompanying spine-tingling sensation of unwavering mortality once craved and coveted by the restless aspiring musician, simply wasn’t doing the wonders it had once done. More so, it had grown overrated. It had deteriorated in the form of a thrill, becoming as much a part of his daily charade as was everything else. A mere part of the scenery. The wallpaper. It just was. Noise. A constant headache without the relief. And his initial instinct; his initial impulse, as had been for what seemed like years now, was to cringe. Recoil. Duck and cover. Maybe even to run from it all and never look back.

As discovered over the past several months of tiresome album recordings, movie-making, and endless touring, John was tired. Worn down. And not just physically. The mental wear and tear had been most unbearable of late, and worse, it was present all the time— eating at his insides; clawing at the inner walls of his skull. And there was never time to slip away from it, even for just several minutes at a time of coveted solitude. There was hardly the time to properly tend to one’s self even, let alone think or clear one’s mind. As irritating as it all was, John didn’t see himself fit enough to even bother questioning the way of life anymore. There simply wasn’t a point. He hardly bothered with the minor detail regarding why the Beatles could never seem to hear themselves while performing no matter how much they strained to be heard or whether or not their fans actually even appreciated the quality of their music. For all he knew, they— the Beatles, were just mere faces. Faces everyone seemed to worship for whatever stupid reason suited them. Faces that somehow stood apart from everything and everyone else, regardless of what levels of talent were attached. It was rather maddening. Disgusting. And when it all came down to the wire, the world of mental madness always seemed a mere matter of steps away as did the brink of self-destruction.

“It’s your chosen way of life, John,” Brian would tell him over and over again with that unwavering smile he was often capable of, especially when dealing with the likes of him, “You just cope with it. Learn to live with it if you haven’t already.”

In the admirably rose-colored eyes of Brian Epstein, everything just was. Regardless of the tarnished quality of the way of the universe, everything just was. When life knocked you down, you simply pulled yourself to your feet and kept going. Kept thriving. Kept coping. John assumed Brian knew what he was talking about. After all, he’d been forced to cope with the simple act of _being_ his entire life, being queer and all. Forced to cope, despite the undeniable and unforgiving fact that there was a world full of cold-hearted people that was far from all right with what he stood for. Coldhearted like John. Like what he’d predictably grown into. Perhaps, he should feel some sort of remorse on his own part for his own selfish wants and needs. There were far more significant and commanding problems harbored by others that exceeded his own petty ones by a long shot. Eppy was a prime example of that. But somehow even then, the rhythm guitarist couldn’t bring himself to give even an ounce of a fuck. Never could. He was more than coldhearted. He was downright awful. As awful as he was miserable… and he could hardly stand it. One could only cope for so long.

They’d been interviewed individually and numerously that day; each Beatle condemned to one reporter at a time. As always, they’d found themselves tiresomely and unwillingly catering to the ongoing competition that was the formed rivalry between individual press groups. Groups, that somehow made unrespectable livings off of creating slander for exclusive papers and magazines fueled by nonstop malicious intentions allowing them to hone in on personal lives at limited costs. It was a corrupt way of life, really. A corrupt way to be. And what made it even more loathsome, was how these reporters would hide within a sugar-coated bubble at the mercy of the falsely-implied truth that they were doing the world good. The way they were trapped beneath the constant assumption that it was okay to pry and ask millions of irrelevant, mindless questions regarding someone’s personal lifestyle, for their own benefit. Any normal person would be labeled a stalker in that sense, but these people… these people got paid to pry. Paid, to milk any unsuspecting victim of targeted interest dry of what they saw as vital information, and send them on their way like defective, worn-out items of useless variety.

In Lennon’s honest opinion, it was bollocks. All of it. And this particular publicity event had been no different. Hours and hours of utter bollocks, was all it had been. It hadn’t helped matters one bit that none of them had gotten much sleep the night before, as they’d gotten back late from some show they’d played at some formless place. It had all been a blur to him, but what else was new? Lately, it often was. Lately, it _always_ was. But blur or not, it was never enough to take away any from the increasing exhaustion that would, in the aftermath of all the madness, threaten to tear his muscles and mind to shreds. It was never enough to even begin to lessen the agonizing phenomenon that was forever stalking him from around every corner from which it would proceed to tackle him and smother him in all his moments of ‘rest’, as fleeting as they were. Time, would always slow down at times of the like. Slow down, to the point that he would inconveniently feel every bit of resulting excruciating misery; all of it stemming from the constancy of life in the fast lane. And the continuously nagging will to self-destruct would grow even stronger.

Always, the band would try and figure out what was wrong with him and allegedly attempt to piece him back together like it was their god-given right and he was fucking Humpty Dumpty or something. But they’d’ never get anywhere as John would often in turn, slap on a fake grin, crack a joke reminiscent of his ‘old self’, and send them on their merry way as though it was all a misunderstanding and he was fine, after all. Sometimes, he’d blow up at them for simply caring and they’d slip away like skittish deer fleeing into the safety of the woods— away from Lumberjack Lennon who they feared just as much as they loved. No matter the consequences, Paul was always the least reluctant to flee. Somehow, he’d always had that uncanny ability to see through every one of his constructed guises and the facades. And he’d needlessly worry. He’d been worried about him for quite some time now, months at least. And if he kept on, the silly git would probably worry himself straight into the ground one day and for what? For the sake of one John Winston Lennon? The sorry sod who’d, just as soon, turn to the comforting hand of food, drugs, and alcohol rather than grow a set and own up to his problems? Daft git of a bassist would only end up hurting himself. And Lennon solemnly stood by that cold revelation.

The roar of the fans somehow managed to escalate from plain annoying to unbearably overwhelming, the moment the Beatles finally crossed through the main door into the late autumn sunshine. As per usual, the sight of them wasn’t any more comforting than their sound had been. It was utter chaos, not that the Beatles weren’t used to utter chaos. Chaos played a part everywhere they went with everything they did. But John’s tolerance level in the face of it all was on a rapid and sporadic decline; _today_ especially. Whether or not he was used to it didn’t matter.

A brisk wind blew from somewhere up north only adding to the generated irritation spawned by the yielded outcome of the day; rudely taking away from whatever bit of warmth the sun was straining to provide. He was tired. No, exhausted. John was exhausted and fed up and he just wanted to get hom— back to the stupid hotel they’d bloody be confined to until whatever stupid event would next drag them from their jail cell courtesy of Warden Epstein.

Beside him, McCartney grinned, waved, and batted those precious, enviable eyelashes as though someone had flipped a hidden switch somewhere on his body, activating the nauseating crowd-pleasing aspect of him that John could hardly get his mind to wrap around. Such a people-pleaser, he was. The only one by this stage in the life of the Beatles, who completely and devoutly bought into the nonstop hype the media would constantly provide. The only one, still willing to play the game, no questions asked. John couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why this bothered him as much as it did, these days. Perhaps, it was due to a simple change in mindset; a change yielded by how they were perceived by the world and their return perception of said world. In the beginning, they’d _all_ bowed down to the monster that was fame, not one of them able to help themselves any more than the last. After all, they’d only been a couple of nobodies from Liverpool struggling to forage their way and make necessary names for themselves. And they’d been rightfully equipped with the charm and charisma required, as well as the looks coveted by the public eye. So why wouldn’t they have chosen to have a bit of fun with it? Why wouldn’t they have intentionally chosen to bask in the standard splendor their fans had been generously tossing their way? With years and years worth of mindless obsession blindly being thrown at them in their honor, however, it was hardly necessary anymore. In fact, it was all sickening. Becoming more sickening all the time. What was it about McCartney that kept him so aloof and resilient? Even Ringo could feel the downward pull. George too. And John… he was tired. So goddamned fucking tired all the time. And this Paul, who refused to bend beneath the constant overbearing weight of the world, somehow only contributed to more exasperation. He sparkled like the sun in the presence of the fans, fed off the press like a bloody vampire straight out of Transylvania or wherever it was they came from. The press hardly deserved the best of McCartney with his endless charismatic charm… They hardly deserved the worst of him either. They hardly deserved the worst of any of them, though Lennon was certain he had a few choice words for the blinkered gits.

The _press._ John clenched his fists in a bit of surfacing anger. The _stupid, bloody press_ made up of lousy reporters who hadn’t a clue what was going on or what was happening all about them in _real_ time. They were like ravenous sharks in a manner that proved them not much different from the most senseless of their fans. Only difference was, they were the annoying sort of shark that fed on whatever bit of information they could get their oversized jaws on, no matter how harmful… or how _hurtful_ it might be. They simply didn’t care. John hung his head in a bout of despair as the already realized conclusion resurfaced within his brain for the hundredth time since leaving behind the series of tormenting interviews. _They simply didn’t care…_ The anger slipped from him and the rhythm guitarist found himself frowning as his haggard mind shifted into an uninvited replay of the most recent of interviews. _They simply didn’t care._

“ _She’s ready to meet with you now, John_ ,” Brian had gently prodded, shaking him from what would’ve been sleep’s grip had time allowed it, “ _George’s all set and you’re next._ ”

In weak anticipation of what might as well have been his thousandth interview of the day, John had risen from his seat, walked into the intended room, and sat down; his eyes, having been crying out for sleep at the time, hidden behind its typical wall of cynicism. The smile had been there; nonetheless, heavy as it had been from the never-ending trials of the day. He’d extended a hand out to the reporter who’d regarded him with a smile of her own before taking it in a handshake. She’d introduced herself immediately, her tone of voice presenting itself as being overeager. Potentially fake. More likely fake. Like fame was.

Regardless, John had nodded in polite response to her introduction, “ _I’m John Len_ —”

Her eyes had been wild with recognition, the reporter, as she’d crudely interrupted him with blind excitement, “ _I know exactly which one you are!_ ” she’d stated animatedly, “ _You’re the fat Beatle!”_

And John had struggled to keep the shock of the statement from showing on his face. But the hurt had been imminent. The anger. He’d blinked and turned away, swallowing back a few choice words.

“ _You know!_ ” the dumb tart had gone on to explain to him as though he hadn’t a clue what was happening, “ _Just like how the others have nicknames! Paul’s the cute one, George is the quiet one, and Ringo_ —”

“ _Quit talking like y’know all about them!_ ” John had growled, refusing to look her in the eye. She might see the hurt then. And it was satisfaction he just hadn’t been able to let her have.

“ _Have I offended you_?” she’d stupidly asked, “ _There’s been quite a bit of talk of your new image. Was it intentional or_ …” her voice had trailed off as she caught sight of the menacing glare John remembered springing on her, “ _Not intentional, then_ ,” she’d concluded.

John had forced his face into a leering smirk, “ _I think we’re done ‘ere, princess_ ,” he’d coldly responded.

The tart’s face had paled dramatically, “ _But I’ve barely begun!_ ”

John’s smirk had widened into a leering grin of complete insincerity; the only thing keeping him from lashing out at her, “ _That’s not me problem, love_.”

“ _Don’t you understand? I’m only speaking from information I’ve heard_!” she’d tried to defend herself as though her words held the key of undoing the hurt she’d just caused; as though they were capable of justifying everything.

John hadn’t wasted his time with an answer. He’d had enough. Impulsively clenching his fists, he’d gotten up. He’d been shaking all over by the time he’d sought out Brian and informed him that he was ready to leave.

“ _But why, John? We’ve still got a bit of time to go_ ,” the manager had calmly replied as though watching the members of his band squirm had all been but a simple game to him. He might’ve recognized the look in his eye by that point because his eyes had softened in instant concern. “ _All right, John, if that’s what you want. Lucky for you, we’ve squeezed in quite a bit today_.”

Lucky. _Lucky._ What a stupid word. But John hadn’t bothered with any unnecessary remarks as enough had been made at his expense. He’d merely turned away with a heated glare for the entire room and stormed towards the nearest exit. Once again, everything had turned into a blur… He lived in a blur.

“Coming, Johnny?” John looked up from his reverie, presently noting that Ringo had stopped beside him. Stopped. John frowned realizing right then that he too had stopped walking at some point. Stopped walking towards whatever bit of bliss the limo would have to offer them.

John’s eyes were heavy with despair as he turned to regard the drummer. As though remembering they were windows to his soul, he quickly shifted his gaze in an alternative direction for a fleeting moment of composure and drew in a deep breath. When he brought his eyes back to Ringo, cynicism had regained its throne within them. “ _Of course_ I’m coming!” he barked. He hadn’t meant to sound so snippy. His mouth and mind seemed to have their own set course of action.

Ringo didn’t recoil, however, only looked at him harder now as though he could see through him, “All right?” he asked, a bit of worry present in his blue eyes. He’d witnessed firsthand the change in personality as it had uninvitingly crept over his mate throughout the course of the day. The guitarist had been so mischievous and animated earlier on, much like his old self; it was hard to see him in current form. Now it seemed he was spontaneously entering an even deeper world of gloom as was the case more often than not as of late.

John hesitated slightly before responding. “Yeah.” He continued on right then, desperate now more than ever to seek out solace away from the madness all about him. He was cracking up. He’d surely lose it like a madman if he continued on in prolonged exposure.

Ahead of him, George gave the occasional subdued wave typical of him, while Paul continued to mug for their fans like a bloody robot. The bassist radiated all the sugar in the world. So much that John was certain that if he kept at it, there’d be none left in the world. “Bloody ‘ell, don’t ye’ ever get tired of it, McCartney?”

“Tired of what, John?”

John blinked in a bit of surprise as Paul turned towards him. Surely he hadn’t meant to be heard. “Nothing. _Nothing,_ Paul.” Again he was coming off ill-tempered.

Paul furrowed his brow at him in confusion, “But—”

John plastered on a thick grin as though to disengage Paul’s interest in him and joined in the act of his other mates, waving incessantly like a good little Beatle.

Jumping through hoops like some kind of circus act— created by the hand of ringmaster Brian Epstein. This time, it felt even more fake. This. Everything. Because not one of these people knew a thing other than what their eyes were graced with on a daily basis. The fans, the press; none of them. They thought they knew him but they didn’t have a clue. At this point, John wasn’t even sure he even knew himself. Not anymore.


	2. Tell Me Why

“Perhaps, we should wait for the others first, Geo,” Paul pointed out, more so barked, as the band’s youngest immediately and hastily gravitated towards the elevator buttons upon entering its metallic interiors.

“But ‘m’starving now!” Harrison near-whined in response to Paul’s ill-timed morality. He glanced impatiently towards the hotel’s main entrance; still visible through the entryway of the elevator claimed by both him and Paul. John, Ringo, and Mal had yet to even enter the hotel’s lobby, let alone the elevator he was so eager to launch up to their intended floor of destination in all his desperation. “Can’t they catch up on their own time?”

Paul settled himself in the elevator doorframe, cleverly using his entire backside to keep the double doors from closing them in, “I somehow have the feeling they wouldn’t fancy being left behind,” he replied idly.

George glared at the bassist; outwardly fuming at the inconvenience of his inconsiderately staged ‘sit-in’. It took everything within him to keep from shoving him out the elevator door and taking off towards the Beatles’ suite, himself. By this point of the day, he was past starvation and well on his way to ravenous. Well into the undesired shakiness that could hardly wait to claim him whenever he went long periods without a bite to eat. He was pretty sure that his stomach was beginning to devour itself. Whenever hunger escalated so drastically, he was bound to be a force to reckon with. Bound to overstep boundaries in the least rational of ways. “Why not?” he sharply inquired, “At the rate everyone’s going, I’ll die of starvation waiting around. I ‘aven’t eaten a thing since brekky, Paul… ‘S’not right!!”

“We’re _all_ hungry, Geo!” Paul sternly responded with a roll of the eyes indicative of growing frustration, “You and that bottomless pit y’call a stomach aren’t the only ones so do yerself a favor and bloody come off it. It’s getting a bit old!”

George reluctantly backed off from pressing any buttons and settled his back against the elevator wall furthest from Paul, “Yeah? Well, so am I…” came his sardonic response. He hastily crossed his arms over his chest in a sulking manner, “I’ve waited all bloody day listening to the lot of ye’ bickering sods. I believe I’m owed whatever bloody bit of solace I can get me hands on.”

“Language, Geo.”

Laughter filled the silence that followed and both George and Paul turned to see John and a clearly-amused Ringo finally making their long-accounted for presence known.

 _“What?”_ George sharply threw at them, the tightness of his voice indicating the flow of his irritation.

 _“Language!”_ John repeated with a belittling, condescending smirk, reminiscent of his own unspoken troubles. His voice held a tone lacking kindness or even humor as it would often portray when goading their youngest about the lax use of profanity he’d come out with when miffed.

“Piss off, Lennon!” George snapped, glaring at him in a huff, “Y’know damned well me stomach’s not used to the kind of torment y’sods ‘ave been carelessly putting it through!”

Lennon held his smirk in place, the typical expression quickly growing colder all the time, “Well, the only current _torment_ stems from yer cakehole, love,” he crudely shot back, “and by all means, me ears aren’t entirely sensitive to it either.”

George continued to scowl at him while Paul and Ringo, finding plentiful humor in the statement, chuckled.

“If the press could see ye’ now,” John deadpanned, pausing thoughtfully beside Paul in the elevator’s entryway. “Perhaps, they wouldn’t be so quick to label ye’ the ‘quiet Beatle’.”

“Jus’ shut yer gob and get yer arse in ‘ere, Lennon,” George growled, blatantly remaining un-amused in the face of his abrasive humor.  
Paul and Ringo’s chuckles increased in volume.

John turned to them, his expression only darkening at their carefree tittering. “What’s so funny?! I’m making a bloody point!” he sharply affirmed, “The bloody press can’t see a thing beyond what lies at our surfaces!”

“Well, I’d like to give them a little credit,” Paul ventured slyly, a mischievous grin gracing his face, “As far as I’m rightly concerned, I _am_ the cute one ‘ere and rightfully so.”

Lennon turned towards the bassist, fixing him with a somewhat disgruntled scowl, “Must be nice— getting by on good looks alone, _Macca,”_ he brazenly retorted.  
The self-pleased smile tumbled from Paul’s face. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked, his eyes widening in a mixture of instant surprise and hurt.

John shrugged, his gaze alarmingly derisive as it met up with the offense in his mate’s face, _“Nothing._ Jus’ watch out fer that ego of yers, _darling._ Things like that tend to bite ye’ in the aft end when yer least expect it.”

Paul flared, his hurt pride evolving into anger, “Well, yer one to talk, John!!” he retaliated, finally coming to his own defense.

John scoffed, apathy ruling his features. “Am I?” he remarked bitterly, “I _know_ I ‘ave an ego, love. Only difference is, I don’t try and hide it behind a pretty face.”  
“Like ye’ ‘ave one to ‘ide behind,” Paul countered, his anger beginning to surge beyond his control.

John’s mouth dropped slightly in a bit of hurt of his own, before blind fury moved in, tightening every feature of his face in the most threatening of ways, “Why, y’pompous, self-centered little—” was all he cared enough to get out before he impulsively drew back a fist. Like a dog on a chain, he was suddenly yanked back courtesy of Ringo who had deftly managed to get a firm grip on both his arms. John thrashed about wildly for a moment before suddenly giving up, the fight draining instantaneously from his face. “Get off me y’fucking git,” he growled, his tense muscles going lax in spite of the fire in his words.

“Can y’control yerself?” Ringo calmly asked him before daring to convey to his words.

John abruptly shook away the remainder of Ringo’s grip. “Gang up on Lennon,” he muttered glumly, “Everyone does.” He straightened himself up and turning away, retreated to a corner of the elevator in sought out isolation. He was shaking so much he could hardly walk the short distance in a straight line. As he carelessly dropped himself to a squatting position, he suddenly looked sadder and more distraught than he had all day.

Paul felt immediate remorse branching from the cold uttered words that had nearly led to what might have been the scuffle of a lifetime, “John—” he began, making a hesitant move towards him. Forgetting he was supposed to be holding the elevator door open, it quickly shut behind him, prompting George to hurriedly press the buttons corresponding with the floor of their suite. The elevator began to lift instantaneously leaving behind Mal, wherever he was.

Paul didn’t react or even seem to notice as his gaze and accompanying attention remained attached to the miserable form of none other than his best mate in a form of solid fixation. As he drew closer, however, slowly and carefully with all the caution of a wildlife tracker, Lennon’s raw sorrow on display went out like a broken light, anger absorbing it once more as eye contact was made. “Sod off, McCartney and leave me the bloody ‘ell alone!!” he snarled, much warning present in his voice.

Paul stopped in his tracks despite the duly noted fact that the rhythm guitarist’s response was much weaker than it could’ve been. Desperate to know what he’d done to get the treatment he was currently getting from his best mate; he sternly held his ground, his arms crossing adamantly over his chest, “What the fuck’s yer problem, Lennon?” he demanded almost plaintively, “You’ve been attacking me nonstop ever since we’ve left the bloody interview fer chrissake!”

“So intellect can coexist with good looks,” John grimly muttered turning to look away from him, “ _Another thing_ overlooked by the useless press. Bloody idiots, the lot of ‘em.”

Paul quizzically arched an eyebrow at him, beginning to sense a vague method to the madness he was currently tossing about, “This is about the press, then?” he found himself asking hesitantly.

“Thought I told ye’ to _sod off_!” John grumbled, lifting his gaze towards him once again in the form of a halfhearted glare. “Hard of ‘earing as well, are ye’?”  
“A reporter say something to ye’?” Paul pressed on, ignoring his mate’s repeated attempts at verbal assault.

John chuckled offhandedly from his seat on the floor, the laugh sounding oddly hollow to Paul’s ears. “They’re _always_ saying things, Macca.”

“Well, yes… but—”

John quickly broke eye contact, his restless mannerisms blatantly indicating he had no interest on keeping the conversation rolling. “‘S’not important. _Piss off_ and mind yer business ‘fore I carry on with the arse-kicking I was about to lay into ye’.”

Paul blinked at his sudden change of heart but retreated, nonetheless, deciding it was best not to continue on with his investigative charade by this point; unpredictable as Lennon could be.

The elevator dinged unexpectedly and the double doors opened, drawing a necessary distraction, as well as, awakening the realization that the elevator was no longer at the hotel’s ground level but several floors up rather. _Harrison, no doubt_ , McCartney prematurely concluded with a bit of annoyance. Somehow, the lead guitarist had managed to get around him to reach his intended goal. “Where’s Mal?” Paul demanded, his eyes zeroing on the culprit responsible.

George turned to gaze at him, his eyes mirroring all the false innocence in the world as he proceeded to shrug.

“Taking the stairs, I guess,” John lazily offered in his place with a profound lack of interest in the subject altogether. He pulled himself to his feet and shoving past his mates, exited out into the hall, the rest filing out behind him.

George grinned cheekily at their bassist as he passed him by, eager to be the first to their suite, “A little slow on the uptake, are we, Paul?” he lightly asked, his mood having significantly rebounded by the nearing promise of edible glory.

Paul returned his grin with a devious and smug smirk. “I hate to break it to ye, Geo but… yer crafty lil’ move didn’t do a whole lot of good,” he nonchalantly responded, “We _still_ ‘ave to wait fer Mal, y’know. He’s got our key to the suite, after all!”

 _“Y’can’t_ be serious…” George moaned.

Paul laughed at George’s reaction, “Serves y’right fer being so impatient,” he playfully chided.

“Sod off, McCartney!” George growled, settling a hand on his stomach as it chose right then to announce its own thoughts on the turn of events. “Anyone know how to pick a lock?”

Paul and Ringo laughed and all fell silent as the band began their trek down the long hallway towards the doorway of their suite.

“What do y’s’ppose is taking Mal so long?” Ringo proclaimed after a while, breaking the advanced silence that had befallen them, “He said he’d be with us shortly jus’ moments before I came in.” He glanced down at the watch hugging his wrist. “Something or someone must’ve slowed him down.”

“And what of it, Sherlock?” John sharply muttered, turning to stare the drummer down, “He was a big boy last I checked…” he faltered momentarily as though to re-gather his thoughts, “or would y’rather hold his hand through this most difficult of times?”

Paul shook his head in regards to the rhythm guitarist’s unnecessarily extreme overreaction. Rather than address him on his sporadic behavior as was his initial instinct, he decided to casually carry on with the source of conversation Ringo had been trying to infuse, “Well, I suppose he should be along any moment now, I’d think, Rings…” he responded slowly, wary eyes discreetly probing John all the while, “Might take a while considering the fact that he either has to wait fer the elevator or take the stairs… courtesy of a certain _someone!”_ He glared at the back of George’s head.

“Regardless, I’m bloody knackered as is,” John responded, wasting no time on asserting his own opinion, “So he’d better hurry up. I’ve got an irreversible date with me bed that begins the moment I enter the suite.” He then added with a bit of a sneer, “Hope none of y’sods plan on needing me fer the rest of the evening.”

“But aren’t ye’ hungry?” Paul asked, still outwardly baffled by Lennon’s cryptic behavior.

“No more than ye’ are intrusive,” John retorted snidely.

Paul recoiled once more. _Jesus Christ_. This was getting bloody ridiculous. Perhaps, John was upset with him after all. But _why?_ Did he even want to know by this point? The way Lennon was carrying on, any insight alone might kill him. “Are… you… upset with me, John?” he hesitantly blurted out.

John turned on him so fast, Paul was certain he was about to fall prey to some sort of verbal abuse. But just as suddenly, the rhythm guitarist softened and all traces of impulsive exasperation melted away. “No…” he sighed.

“Then what’s the matter, John?” Paul prodded, “Are… you … all right?”

John looked as though he was about to reveal something but he quickly thought better of it, his demeanor changing yet again, “I’m fine, y’fairy. Go bother someone else.”

Despite the smile he flashed following his statement, he somehow looked mentally tormented. Painfully despondent… It was all in his eyes. ‘ _Something’s wrong_ …’

Paul concluded. Though what it was, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it didn’t take a psychiatrist to be able to see past his charade. “Are ye’ _sure_ yer—”

“Great,” George took the time to impatiently butt in from his distant settlement in front of their suite’s locked door. _“He’s_ fine, _yer_ fine, we’re _all_ fine. Now, does someone know how to pick a lock or what? If I wait fer Mal, I might die waiting…”

“I told ye’, George!” Paul snapped, momentarily tearing his eyes off John so he could fix him with a glare, “We’re _waiting_ fer Mal!”

“Waiting, waiting… _always_ waiting fer someone…” George muttered.

“Yer a selfish bastard when yer hungry, y’know that?” Ringo laughed.

“Well good,” the lead guitarist responded indignantly, “Perhaps, you’ll think better of depriving me of food next time.”

 _“We_ didn’t deprive you of anything!” Paul responded in a fit of incredulity, “Jesus Christ, Harri!”

“I’m about to deprive ‘im of something all right,” John challenged, his eyes narrowing in growing aggravation. He pushed past Paul and made his way to the door, roughly casting George aside. Within a matter of seconds, he had the door open.

“John Winston Lennon!” Ringo exclaimed in disbelief, his voice going high-pitched to mirror a mother scolding her son.

“He _did!”_ George proclaimed in pure elation, “Ta, Johnny!!” He was the first one into the suite, his legs carrying him swiftly towards the kitchen.

“Mal will ‘ave yer head,” Paul admonished with a shake of the head as he made a move to close the door after everyone had entered.

“Do I look worried?” John responded, aiming a cheeky grin at him. Again, his eyes were contradicting; telling stories all their own that weren’t related to the subject at hand.

Paul frowned, “Well, not quite… though y’do look—”

John dismissively waved him off. “I’m gon’ catch up on me sleep…” he interrupted, making it quite obvious that he wasn’t interesting in hearing how he currently looked. “Tell Geo to keep quiet should he find the need to intrude on me privacy.” He turned his back on the bassist and had only taken but a few steps in the direction of his bedroom before the sounds of a key in the lock of the suite’s main entrance caught his ears. Paul too, stopped to listen. “Blimey, it’s Mal!” he apprehensively announced after a while.

John brushed off the bassist’s obvious concerns, “Settle down, would ye’? What, y’think he’s gon’ punish us? Confine us to our bedrooms? Aren’t we pretty much _under_ house arrest?”

Paul snickered. “We are, aren’t we?”

The door opened right then revealing, as expected, their road manager. The look on his face justified Paul’s initial concerns to a tee. “How’d y’boys get in?” he demanded, his eyes settling on John’s first before gravitating to Paul.

“Magic,” John quipped, “I’m a wizard… with _doors…”_

“Yer a wizard with trouble, as well,” Mal muttered, zeroing his gaze on the rhythm guitarist, “I should’ve known y’were the one behind this!”

John rolled his eyes. “‘S’not me fault y’took so bloody long,” he responded irritably, “We’re bloody knackered and don’t entirely fancy waiting around all day… Ask Geo.”

Mal shook his head impatiently, his gaze moving towards the kitchen where quite the clatter could be heard. Both George and Ringo were what easily could’ve been estimated as waist-deep in grub. “Never mind. I’ll deal with it later,” the road manager mumbled, stepping further into the suite and moving to close the door behind him. “I’m afraid there are more pressing matters at hand.”

“Like what?” Paul asked.

Mal sighed. “I got caught up speaking with hotel security which is actually what ended up delaying me. Turns out, there have been some reporters sniffing about the vicinity without proper permission.”

 _“What?”_ both Paul and Ringo chorused, their voices coming together from opposite ends of the room.

John bristled visibly, the increased tension in his body catching Paul’s peripheral vision. Alarmed, the bassist turned to him with questioning eyes, “All right?” he whispered.

John nodded with a bit of a grunt and turned away from him, his gaze resettling on the direction of his and George’s shared bedroom.

Paul furrowed his brow in a bit of rising confusion but quickly brushed off the entire occurrence. “Well, where are they now?” he asked.

“They’ve been removed from the premises,” Mal revealed, “Hotel security, however, has been elevated.”

“Wonder what they wanted,” George outwardly mused through a mouthful of scone.

“What do y’think, _genius?”_ John snapped at him, “What does the press _ever_ want? _Cookies? Lemonade?”_

“Now, John—” Mal started to reprimand.

His words immediately fell on deaf ears as the blatantly troubled rhythm guitarist once again, proceeded to turn away from all of them, clearly no longer in a state of listening. “‘ _Quiet_ _Beatle_ ’ in deed,” he was busy muttering to himself, a permanent scowl planted firmly on his face as he started away en route to his room, “ _Clueless_ is more like it…”

Paul sighed as he allowed his eyes to follow his mate, wonderment regarding his recently acquired state of being, continuing to flood his mind. It was more than obvious now that the rhythm guitarist was in some kind of altered state of sulking. Playful prankster Lennon had been carelessly left behind somewhere only to be replaced with his cynical and low-spirited other half. It was possible he was just knackered and grumpy as the rest of them were. While there was probably truth in that, Paul, in one way or another, couldn’t bring himself to the full certainty that it was entirely the case. With John being the way he was, he hated to think that something out of the ordinary could actually be wrong with him. Such mishaps when they occurred within that twisted mind of his would usually spiral quickly out of control before they’d even begin to show the slightest signs of fixing themselves. And Paul, he’d worry. He was always worried, though he could never quite figure out why. Perhaps, it was the state of mind Lennon had unwittingly succumbed to over the past several months. The bassist had been keeping tabs on the steady decline seemingly overcoming him for a good portion of time now. He’d been drinking more, smoking more, sleeping more, eating more, and overall he was by some means, much more subdued than Paul had ever seen him. He’d lost his fire… His spark… His fight. He was tired. Tired of a lot of things. Tired of the lifestyle that accompanied fame. And because of all of it combined, every little tribulation, no matter how small, was always quick to consume him; bringing him down to the dark depths of anger, frustration, and if powerful enough, self-destruction. Paul could count on several fingers how many times the rhythm guitarist had nearly succeeded on drinking himself to death over something going on in his life he wasn’t in a state of handling. He solemnly hoped that whatever current problem that may or may not be bothering his mate, wasn’t strong enough or significant enough to trigger the worries already fighting to work their way out from his heart.


	3. The Word

John felt sick as he allowed his eyes to read, re-read, and re-read yet again, the ominous black print leaping out at him from the very page of the newspaper he now grasped between shaking fingers. Somehow, word about a simple physical change had gotten out and the press, as usual, was on top of it. They’d found out as they often would, went public with it, and now as a lovely result, the world was on top of it, as well. Together, they all knew. They _all_ knew what he’d become. What he was _still_ becoming. What John Lennon truly and undeniably was. A _monster_. A horrible _kind_ of monster, living a horrible kind of life. The _worst_ kind of monster. The bane of his own existence. And worse, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. There wasn’t a thing he could do to change this. To reverse its effects. To reverse its damage.

The choice in wording was cruel; the words themselves, taunting the targeted rhythm guitarist, as they commanded his reluctant attention; successfully fulfilling their goal of cramming his head with its slander. Over and over again, they worked together to scream out in black magnified letters, their shared message of menace; to unleash upon him, their hurtful emotion-seeking missiles of propaganda. “Fat Beatle…” John Lennon, the ‘fat Beatle’. Fat. Fatty, fat, fat. _Fat_. Fat John. Only, it wasn’t propaganda. Not quite. Propaganda were half truths. Misinformations… And he wasn’t _not_ fat… _was_ he? Of course he wasn’t. _Not fat_ was a label for his band mates. _Not fat_ was the complete opposite of what he saw of himself on a daily basis. The complete opposite of the discouraging mess that had claimed him for new identity. He knew _already_ what the world thought of him whenever they took the time to scope him out. He didn’t _need_ a written broadcast to tell him. They saw the fat Beatle. The sorry sap that to them, was an elephant in size when compared to the likes of dainty Paul McCartney and no less than the size of a whale when compared with a bony George Harrison and a pint-sized Ringo Starr. Who was he kidding?

‘ _You are fat, Lennon,_ ’ his mind freely stated, abruptly taking over his free-range thoughts without much invitation to do so,’ _A regular, soddin’ ham. Look at y’trying to accept brutal reality in spite of yer bruised ego_ … _It’s no wonder Cyn hates the sight of ye’._ ’ He could almost hear them laughing; the world. Not with him, as he would often lead them to doing with his sometimes childish antics and dry, often cynical-inspired way with words; but at him. _At_ him. _Laughing_ at him. For the first time in what seemed like a history of histories, the rhythm guitarist was succumbing rapidly and unwillingly to the laughingstock position. And not in a way that he had any control over.

Heaving a sigh, John finally freed his hands from the edge of the slandered mess and allowed the newspaper to tumble carelessly to the floor. Laugh at him, will they? He’d show _them_. He was John Lennon for chrissake. John the musician… the rhythm guitarist… the songwriter. He hadn’t come all this way to be reduced in the blink of an eye to ‘ _Fat Beatle: John Lennon… Fatty, fat, fat Beatle, John…_ ’ He was greater than that. And just as well, he could easily force himself to face and rise above anything and everything the world threw at him. Even a bit of extra… weight… and all traces of resulting humiliation…

With a bit of renewed willpower, the rhythm guitarist allowed his eyes to confirm the proposed truth about himself. He gazed down first at his tell-tale stomach, his hands automatically gravitating towards some of the intrusive rolls protruding out from beneath the snug waistline of his pants. They jiggled slightly at his touch, like a vengeance-filled gelatin. He gazed next at his betraying, pudgy hands, at how much his fingers had swelled over the course of this past year; a year that had been filled to the brim with ongoing stress, depression, overeating, and overdrinking. The results were unflattering. If he kept carrying on as he’d been, he’d soon have a hard time finding his dick beneath the layers of fat embalming what had once been his smooth and toned stomach. Never mind his dick, he’d never catch sight of his feet again! He was disgusting. Completely repulsive. How was it he had allowed himself to get so bloody carried away? How could he not have taken proper notice enough to stop this horrific transformation from becoming the norm? Regardless, he had seen enough. He didn’t need to see anymore dead giveaways courtesy of his stupid body. He was a pig. End of story. It was no wonder, the press thought so. ‘S’no wonder the world does, as well…” John murmured this last part aloud with ample dejection. Bloody fucking hell. There it was in black and white. It couldn’t get much more realistic than that.

“Say something, Johnny?”

The rhythm guitarist looked up in slight surprise as George took a seat at the kitchen table across from him. Quickly regaining what was left of his shattered composure, he sprang a heated glare on the lead guitarist all but liking his unexpected intrusion, not to mention nosy nature. “What’s it to ye’, Harrison?” he grumbled.

His mind long since on to other things, George failed to notice his band mate’s impulsive actions or his dark and brooding mood. “What’s fer brekky?” he asked lightly as though all was right in the world. His hungry eyes were already tearing apart the kitchen in search of all things edible. “I could go fer some pancakes… or maybe some eggs and hash…”

His words trailed off as John hastily shoved his chair back and promptly removed himself from the table. “Why should I know what’s fer brekky?” he snapped mockingly, “‘Cause I’m fat?”

George shrunk back slightly in his seat, his eyes refocusing on John in pronounced astonishment, “What are ye’ on about? I jus’ thought since yer the first one up today, you’d know of some grub, ‘s’all.”

“Well, I don’t!” was Lennon’s indignant response.

George frowned, unable to fathom what was unraveling here at the rhythm guitarist’s temperamental hand, “Well… take it easy, mate… It was only an assumption, y’know…”

“And a _stupid_ one at that! Do the world a bloody favor from now on, Harrison, and keep yer assumptions to yerself!”

“But…”

“But _nothing_.” John was gone in an instant, any appetite he may have awoken with completely vanquished by the day’s unwanted assertion of trials and tribulations. Somehow, though, he wasn’t overly disturbed by his diminished will to eat. It was reason enough not to have to stuff his face like the pig that he knew himself to be. He might never eat again. And the press, they’d find something new to glorify. He was sure of it.

* * *

 

Despite an overhanging cloud of confusion left behind courtesy of John’s latest outburst, George found himself shrugging with a lack of concern as an aftermath of silence befell the kitchen. Another day, another classic Lennon mood swing, he’d automatically figured. Typical. It would’ve been weird without one at any given point of the day, to the say the least. As per usual, the world would keep on turning and life would go on. The lead guitarist rose from the seat he’d initially flopped down in and went about the kitchen hunting for the one thing that could easily surpass as food. It was obvious that Mal had yet to replenish their weekly supply of groceries so the pickings presented to him this morning were painfully slim. By the looks of it, choices were limited to either cereal or… cereal…

“Morning, Geo…”

George turned to look behind him as Paul entered the kitchen, a sleepy but friendly smile aimed in his direction, “First one up?”

George returned his attention to the box of cereal he’d been about to zero in on prior to the provided distraction. “Nope, John was in ‘ere a little bit ago, but he seems to ‘ave disappeared fer the time being,” he responded casually, “Left in a bit of a huff, really.”

“Oh?” Paul strolled further into the kitchen and was about to grab a seat at the table when he noticed the recently discarded newspaper on the floor nearby. “Oh and I see he couldn’t take the time to clean up after himself beforehand, the lazy git…” He hastily approached the mess for a closer look, “…Who else would leave behind such a bloody, disorderly mess?” With an added grunt of disgust, the bassist bent down to collect the large scattered sheets of creased paper and proceeded to piece them together in the order he assumed they had come in. “…What is this? Today’s news?” Upon scanning the first page for answers, his eyes landed on a particular article supported by the band’s name in boldfaced letters. ‘ _The Beatles Provide a Look of Life on the Road’_ , he read aloud with a bit of piqued, casual interest. “‘Ey, there’s an article in ‘ere about us,” he announced after a while.

George’s subdued reaction portrayed all but captivation, “Yeah? When isn’t there?” he mumbled disinterestedly. He finally grasped his chosen box of cornflakes having finalized his decision and made his way towards the table, setting it down in front of him, “Fancy some cornflakes?” he asked, turning to face Paul once more.

“Yeah… That would be lovely, Geo,” Paul muttered, semi-distractedly.

George watched for a bit with mild interest as the bassist proceeded to lay the newspaper out flat across the surface of the table next to his box of cornflakes, obviously intrigued by the article. “What’s it about?” he asked finally, not sure if he even really cared.

Paul’s eyes working a million miles a minute, continued to skim the page, “Yesterday’s series of interviews…” he responded slowly. He started to say more when a specific grouping of words caught his eye mid-scan, “Bloody ‘ell…” he murmured instead.

“What?” George asked, crossing the kitchen again in search of some cereal bowls.

Paul lifted his gaze and settled them on his younger mate, “Do you know if John’s read this yet?”

“How should I know?” George demanded impatiently, “I’m not his bloody keeper, y’know. What is it?”

“Bloody press referred to Lennon as the ‘Fat Beatle!’” Paul frowned.

Again, George shrugged, “As usual, they don’t know left from right. _We_ know that’s not true and I’m right certain John should know it as well. If anything, I bet ‘e’s laughing in their faces rather than off crying about it.”

Paul couldn’t seem to detach the frown from his face. He’d noticed something about Lennon lately. His self-confidence level hadn’t been the greatest these days.

“Quit dwelling on it,” George scolded, “You’ll only end up making a mountain out of a molehill. Put that thing away and eat something.”

‘ _What if the mountain’s already a molehill_?’ Paul couldn’t help thinking. The bassist relented, nonetheless, and finally folded the paper back up like originally intended. Casting it to a corner of the table distant from them, he grabbed at the box of cornflakes and proceeded to pour himself a bowl.

 

 


	4. I'm Looking Through You

“Where the hell is Lennon?”

The three Beatles on the receiving end of their manager’s most recent and most demanding inquiry shrugged simultaneously; their un-vocalized answers proving every bit as truthful as their general knowledge on the subject allowed for. Unfortunately, it was the wrong answer in Eppy’s eyes.

“What do y’mean you don’t know? Are you or aren’t you aware of the pending photo shoot you’ve got coming up? It’s in less than—” He paused to glance frantically at his watch, “Less than two hours, really. And it takes about forty-five minutes to arrive and…” He paused again to heave somewhat of a mental-stabilizing sigh. “We simply _cannot_ afford to be late!”

“Relax, Eppy,” Ringo stated calmly in as levelheaded a way as he could muster, “I’m sure he’s around somewhere. ‘S’not like he ‘as any place to sneak off to around ‘ere, anyway. We’re not entirely familiar with the area…”

Paul scoffed with an opposing shake of the head, “This is John we’re talking about, Rings. Remember?”

Ringo frowned with the renewed realization, “‘T’is isn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing there,” Eppy butt in, “Find him immediately!”

Ringo cringed. Their manager had been an unrational, frazzled mess from the moment he’d entered the suite; the cause unknown. Setting him off anymore than he already was wouldn’t be wise… Still, the drummer couldn’t hide the realization that he hadn’t the slightest clue how to how to begin to grant his wish. “But Ihaven’t seen ‘im all day,” he cautiously professed.

“Me neither,” Paul quickly followed up, “Geo’s the only one who has!”

Almost immediately, three pairs of eyes turned towards the young lead guitarist who had yet to vocalize any thoughts on the matter. George in reaction rolled his eyes, “Sure I saw him _this morning_ , but that doesn’t mean that I know of his whereabouts _now_. Lazy git’s probably off sleeping somewhere. Could be under the kitchen table fer all I know… or more _logically_ , our bedroom!” He couldn’t figure out why everyone was wasting so much time getting worked up on the matter when no one had even bothered to begin looking for him in even the most obvious of places. Perhaps, it was because it was Lennon they were speaking of. And whenever the rhythm guitarist chose to slip off into oblivion without so much an explanatory word, it was often due to the fact that he didn’t wish to be found. And such happenings often only unraveled whenever he was upset over something… which had been more often than not as of late.

“Quite…” Ringo stated softly, pensively, “This isn’t the smallest suite we’ve stayed in, really. Possibilities are endless. And when it comes to Johnny…” He allowed his voice to taper off, one glance to Eppy informing him that he wasn’t gaining any more patience from the conversation he was currently being faced with. If anything, it looked as though he was mere instances from exploding in a panic-induced rage.

“I’ll find him!” Paul sighed, taking it upon himself to get the ball rolling. Pissing off Brian was no way to start any day. “I’ve a feeling I know exactly where he is… the bloody git…”

“Atta boy, Macca,” Eppy praised.

Paul didn’t respond as he let himself out of the sitting room area in pursuit of the bedroom the aforementioned rhythm guitarist shared with George. Like the bedroom he currently shared with Ringo, there was a separate room in which extra belongings could be stored. It was just large enough to accommodate one person comfortably and the bassist knew from past experiences in similar hotels that it held the necessary degree of solitude that Lennon would sometimes crave when he was at a near breaking point. Judging by how evasive and reclusive the guitarist had been lately, there was no reason to suspect otherwise this time around. Of course, Paul had been wrong before, but never often when it came to the best mate that he knew like the back of his hand. Better than the back of his hand even.

He crossed into John and George’s bedroom, taking brief notice of John’s empty bed and locked his focus on the doorway to the storage room. “I know yer in there, Johnny…” he stated quietly before swiftly saddling up to the door and wrapping a hand firmly around its handle. Before pulling on it, he pressed his ear soundly to the door and listened intently, seeing if his ears could first confirm his suspicions. Nothing. Silence. He was just about to pull away when he heard it. A muffled sound that sounded something of a whimper. ‘ _What on earth…_ ’

Paul quickly yanked the door open on impulse revealing to him the source of noise. Sure enough, there sat Lennon in the middle of the floor with his back to him.

“John?”

The rhythm guitarist jumped and quickly made a show of composing himself before turning partially to face him. “Can I help ye’?” he asked, taking care to keep the brunt of his face hidden view.

“Are you crying?”

John scoffed loudly. “What?!” he snapped, incredulity ringing through his voice, “Y’crudely barge in on me privacy to ask me if I’m crying?”

“Well are ye’?”

“Don’t be daft…” John mumbled, beginning to fumble around in the dark. A book was produced from the shadows. “I look like a bloody nancy to ye’? I’m reading.”

“In the dark?”

Though he couldn’t see his face, Paul could sense as Lennon rolled his eyes at him. “I may need glasses t’see but I’m a man of many tricks, Macca.”

“What?”

“Nothing. What do y’want?”

“Eppy’s here to collect us fer our photo shoot,” Paul replied softly. He stepped tentatively into the tiny room, staring hard at his mate’s hidden form, scrutiny radiating from his eyes all the while. He wasn’t even in uniform yet. “You didn’t _forget_ did you? Are y’even ready?”

There was a long pause before the guitarist finally responded, “Do I _look_ ready?”

Paul frowned, “Not quite… How quickly can y’get ready?”

“As quickly as it takes fer ye’ t’leave me be.”

Paul didn’t budge, his eyes continuing to study the rhythm guitarist. “Did ye’ even eat? Y’missed brekky, y’know.”

John shrugged indifferently, “Yeah, so?”

“ _So_ …where’ve y’been all morning?”

Breaking momentary eye contact with the page that had been holding his attention somewhat captive thus far, John scrounged up a grin to aim at the ever perceptive bassist that was his best mate, “Here,” he responded cheekily, knowing instantly that Paul would disapprove of his lazy habits.

“George said he saw ye’ earlier this morning,” Paul blurted out, not letting onto whether or not he was getting annoyed with his mate’s cryptic behavior.

“He did, did he?” John found himself scowling at this for reasons unknown, “What else did our little mate, Georgie say?”

“Not much else,” Paul shrugged, “Other than the fact that ye’ left in a huff. What’s on with ye’, love?”

“Wasn’t fully awake,” the rhythm guitarist lied offhandedly, “Woke up to a bit of a headache, really so rather than go back to bed, I came ‘ere to rest me eyes…”

Paul’s face softened in understanding as he unknowingly took in his mate’s well-constructed fallacy. “Is it gone?”

“Is what gone?”

“Yer ‘eadache, John,” Paul elaborated, trying his hardest not to get short with the fellow musician as was sometimes inevitable. His antics were forever maddening.

John smirked finally in response to the bassist’s everlasting concern for him, “Yes, love.”

“Well, y’must be right starving then,” Paul automatically went on to insinuate, “It’s almost noon, y’know. _I’m_ hungry and I’ve eaten already.”

John unwittingly made a face at McCartney’s words and shook his head, “I’ll eat something later, Macca. I’m actually not that hungry.”

“ _Not_ that hungry, John?” Paul echoed as though such feelings were merely unheard of. He frowned in an instance of fleeting concern, “Are ye’ sick?”

John shook his head again, beginning to grow a bit impatient with Paul’s nosiness, “I’m fine, Macca. Can’t yer see I’m trying to read?” he snapped.

Paul rolled his eyes, “Well yes, John… though y’could be better spending yer time getting yer arse ready! What is it yer bloody reading that’s got y’so captivated, anyway?”

“Uh… Um…” John flipped the book over for a quick glance at the cover, but his eyes refused to adjust, “Some book…” he murmured, with a dismissive wave of the hand, “Picked it up on some bookshelf… Quite interesting y’know…”

Paul’s eyebrows furrowed as he quickly scanned the exposed book cover, his concern temporarily overrun by confusion towards his mate’s latest antics, “The thesaurus, John?”

John blinked at him, “What?”

“Yer reading the thesaurus,” Paul pointed out, torn between wanting to laugh or interrogate him further on the subject.

“Yeah, what’s yer point?” John countered, his eyes narrowing on the bassist in challenge.

“Might I ask why?” Paul asked.

Lennon rolled his eyes. “I wish to learn… Exercise me wit. Last I checked it wasn’t a crime!”

“Aren’t y’known fer yer wit, though?” Paul asked, still unsure whether to laugh or not.

John quickly broke eye contact. “Not anymore…” he found himself murmuring under his breath.

“What was that, John?” Paul questioned, his ears failing to pick up on the whispered words.

“I’m not a robot, McCartney!!” John exploded without warning, “I don’t ‘ave perfect photogenic memory, y’know!!”

“It’s _photographic_ , John,” Paul tentatively corrected him, “And no one said y’did.”

“What in blazes are ye’ on about?!”

“You said photogenic.”

“So bloody sue me!” John defensively countered.

Paul drew back finally, his eyes wide. “John, easy! I didn’t mean—”

“No one _ever_ thinks they mean _anything_!” John growled, “But deep down in, y’know damned well they do!” Realizing suddenly what he was unintentionally escalating to, the rhythm guitarist faltered and with a deep much-needed breath, forced himself to calm down. “I’m not a robot…” he mumbled. He lifted a free hand and took a passing gander at it, realizing he was shaking an unfathomable amount. What else was new?

“Y’sure yer all right, John?” Paul dared to venture, his eyes softening once more in all-out worry for his friend.

“Fucking peachy,” John responded jadedly, “Jus’ clear off, would ye’? I’ve a blinding ‘eadache yer not helping.”

“Can I get you anything? Some painkillers, perhaps?”

“No. Jus’ leave… Tell ol’ Eppy not to get his knickers in a twist. I’ll be ready shortly.”

Paul backed out of the tiny doorway. “If y’say so, Johnny…”

Feeling more bemused than ever, the bassist quickly crossed the latter of John and George’s room and forcefully helped himself to the door somewhat reluctant to separate himself from his mate’s unusual behavior. While he’d been acting a bit strangely for days now, this somehow seemed even beyond the usual strangeness Lennon was perfectly capable of exhibiting. Either something was up or… he, Paul, was simply going mad. Perhaps, he was going mad then. No one else seemed to suspect anything out of the ordinary… Then again, they didn’t know John like he did.

Stepping gingerly out into the hall, he closed the door cautiously behind him and had only began to turn in his tracks when he nearly collided head on with Eppy. The manager didn’t seem to notice the barely avoided accident; his mind clearly occupied with other things of important nature. “Well, where is he?” he asked hurriedly; impatiently.

Paul frowned absently, finding he was still buried waist deep within the recent display involving his best mate. “Where’s who, Brian?”

“ _John_ , Paul!” came Eppy’s exasperated response, “ _Where_ is he?”

“Right…” the bassist responded, instantly sobered from his manager’s blatant frustration, “I suppose he’s readying himself…” He took a moment to further contemplate everything that had just recently transpired involving the rhythm guitarist before lifting his troubled gaze to Eppy’s eyelevel, “Go easy on ‘im today all right?” he asked, “I think something might be wrong with him.”

Brian frowned. “What are ye’ on about?” he prodded, apprehension taking him over, “Is he ill?”

Paul shrugged and shook his head. “I… don’t rightly know… I can’t quite put me finger on it…”

 


	5. All I've Got to Do

Following a rather clumsy, halfhearted attempt at straightening his tie, John Lennon cast one final glance in the mirror; his mind hardly satisfied with the image he could barely bring himself to own up to as his own reflection. Just who was he, anyroad? A musician? A Beatle? That much was obvious. Beatle musician John at that. But who was he really? Surely there was more to him than his wit. He’d always known that to be true, as did his mates. But with all that put aside, what was left of him? Anything? Was there anything at all? And what of his looks? Was he simply just fat? Did nothing else matter to the point that his so-called ‘famous’ wit was now overshadowed by such a hurtful label? John frowned as he mulled this all over. It certainly seemed that way. He stared loathingly at his face, taking in the doughy roundness that had claimed it over the past several months. His current cheeks could easily rival Paul’s from his early, chubby Teddy Boy days. And he was starting to see evidence of a double chin. Bloody hell, what was happening to him? He’d always been somewhat in shape before and now... now he was bloody disgusting. He looked exhausted too; his eyes alone, purveyors of the extreme amounts of insatiable stress he’d been carrying for what felt like weeks on end. Lennon frowned jadedly. The disaster didn’t stop there either. He was a right mess right down to his very outfit. Layered from head to toe in the absurd clothing that had been chosen for him just the day before for this particular upcoming photo shoot, he felt especially repulsive. The clothes themselves hadn’t been repulsive. Strewn across his bed, they’d looked halfway decent. But from the moment he’d attempted to put them on, his attitude and perception of them had changed drastically, leaving him terribly disillusioned.

For starters, the slacks had been near impossible to squeeze his lower half into. While he’d managed to get them on regardless, he felt so stiff in them; his legs may as well have been hardy tree trunks lacking their ability to fully bend. In addition, the accompanying coat left him so constricted; he felt he had slipped into a girdle. He could hardly breathe, let alone cough or sneeze if he had to. Clearly, he’d have to go up yet another size in apparel; another slap in the face courtesy of his betraying body. This was just the kind of worthless disclosure that would surely make the press’ day should they somehow find out. Just the kind of revelation that would, without a doubt, reach the front page of every newspaper across the region; successfully catching the eye of every sorry sap in the world that had nothing better to do than to compulsively obsess over the outrageous life of pathetically fat Beatle. He could just hear the little twat that had felt the nerve to belittle him yesterday. ‘ _Word on the street is you’re no longer able to fit into your own garb! It’s no wonder you’re now the fat Beatle! What does your wife think of you? Surely she must think you’re a fat, repulsive, horrible pig of a slob!!_ ’ And she’d be right. The rhythm guitarist couldn’t even find it in his heart to disagree at this point. Not when there was so much indicating otherwise. His clothes had fit and now they didn’t. How else could he go about explaining that? How else could he even rationally begin to defend himself? John shook his head, despondently on the verge of giving up. He simply couldn’t. He ate because he was unhappy. He was unhappy because he ate. It was a vicious cycle, really... One with no true logic. It was no wonder he was bloody fat. Ultimately, he’d brought it on himself. And worse, he was a mere half hour away from engaging in some stupid, mindless publicity event that would only succeed in bringing about permanent proof and reminders of what he’d become... The media’s dream.

Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could feign ill and get out of the bloody ordeal yet. Maybe he could take a personal day; tell Eppy and Mal that he wasn’t in a state of handling the public. It wouldn’t be untrue. Just the thought of the day’s hellish responsibilities alone drained him a considerable amount. But even that in itself would prove disastrous as not only would Eppy not go for it, but it would more than likely leave the bloody press room to dream up _even more_ madness on his behalf. He could see the headlines now. ‘ _John Lennon missing during Beatles’ Photoshoot_ ’. He could see the supporting details to go along with it as well. ‘ _Perhaps he ate himself to death... Perhaps he got so bleeding fat, he blew up... Perhaps he rolled away..._ ’ Lies...propaganda all of it. But what good were such categorizations if the press didn’t care enough to be affected by them? They were driven by the public and the public wanted what the public wanted. And what they wanted was the deepest, darkest scoop of a seemingly perfect band living in the limelight. And the route they were looking to fulfill such desires happened to lead them into the heads and through the heart of England’s ‘beloved’ Beatles. Up until now, the media had failed time and again to weasel their way into the sound, pristine shell that had perpetually seemed to surround them as a whole. Repeated attempts were futile in regards to picking up on embarrassing flaws and running away with them. But _now_ , they had a means. A way. And currently their way in was through him. Lucky Lennon, who’d unwittingly stepped up to the plate and positioned himself just right enough for target-meeting daggers to be thrown at him. The press had dug their claws deep into his back and most likely wouldn’t ease up until they’d succeeded in tearing him apart molecule by molecule. Well, if they thought in the least bit that they could successfully reduce and suppress him, they had another think coming. He’d show them just what he was capable of. Wouldn’t he? Or was that easier said than done?

With a wearied sigh of finality, Lennon miserably pulled his eyes away from his betraying image and with all the remaining strength in his body, forced his unwilling feet to move towards the not-so-inviting doorway. He’d already concluded reluctantly that there wasn’t much to be done about his ill-fitting outfit. Not at this hour and not without threatening to bring a panic attack upon his manager. As amusing as it sometimes was to watch the older man get worked up into a tizzy, John found he really wasn’t in the mood for such bollocks. He was alarmingly every bit as exhausted as he’d looked, growing more so all the time, and the headache he had earlier lied to Paul about was beginning to become a reality. He was a bit shaky too... not to mention sluggish-feeling; his body, weakened from lack of food intake stemming all the way back into the evening hours of the day before, clearly protesting its neglect in numerous ways. John sighed as his stomach took that very moment to openly announce its discomfort. Chances were he’d probably need to grab a small bite to eat before he left...

“There he is!” Ringo announced as the guitarist finally emerged from the doorway leading into the sitting room. Everyone scattered about the vicinity in what resembled a disorganized circle turned to look expectantly at him; silence falling abruptly like a thick blanket of snow as a result, making it seem as though they had all been chatting openly about him beforehand. Lennon scowled at the slowly forming mental conclusion crafted by his head. ‘ _Maybe they’d discovered the most recent disclosure in the news..._ ’ he thought bitterly as he swung his eyes, half-lidded in their usual portrayal of cynicism, about his surveyors. ‘ _Maybe they’re secretly agreeing that I’m... fat. And why shouldn’t they? It’s every bit the truth, ain’t it?_ ’

His eyes locked briefly with the gentle doe eyes of McCartney who attempted to hold his gaze, desperately projecting forth every ounce of concern he was obviously still clinging to. John wasn’t blind to his antics nor was he the least bit flattered by them. He knew what the bassist was up to. He was questioning him. Prodding him. Analyzing him. All with his eyes. The rhythm guitarist broke eye contact as quickly as it had been made, his gaze dropping sharply to the floor. ‘ _Try and read me now, Macca..._ ’ he challenged mentally with surfacing irritability.

“Are you ready to go now, John?” Brian presently asked, offhandedly choosing the moment to break the tense silence. He’d witnessed the exchange between rhythm guitarist and bassist and somehow immediately felt that an intervention was necessary before anything could escalate. “John?”

But he’d slipped unwittingly into another world. ‘ _...Maybe they’re all judging me then,_ ’ the troubled guitarist meanwhile frowned; still trying to seek out the reasoning behind his irrationally growing uneasiness in what should’ve been a comfortable atmosphere.Or maybe it was all in his head.

“ _John_?” Eppy repeated, using his loudest tone yet.

Ringo flinched visibly, causing a snicker to ease out from George.

Slightly startled now, himself, John finally lifted his eyes to the level of his manager. “What?” he questioned casually, his demeanor underlining his oblivion to how many times his name had actually been called.

“Are you _ready_ now?” Eppy demanded. His manner and use of inflexion was a blatant harbinger of his already present impatience and growing frustration, making it all the more evident.

John hesitated a moment before giving way to a slight, almost indeterminate nod. “Yeah...” was his distracted response.

His gaze lingering on him in a quizzical manner, the manager opened his mouth about to question him even further before thinking better of his actions and changing his mind altogether. “Into the car then, all of you!” he stated briskly instead, opting to address the band as a whole. “We’re quite on the edge of running late and as you all know, it’s not the least bit professional to show up past the time one is expecting you!” He glanced again briefly to Lennon, half expecting one of his witty, often derogatory comments to follow as would normally ensue but none came.

Brian frowned, feeling oddly disappointed and somehow even more irritated by this for reasons unknown. Perhaps Paul had been right about John. He certainly didn’t seem to be acting quite like himself. Bloody hell, and in the face of a crucial publicity event when he expected everyone to be on their best behavior.

One by one led by Mal; George, Ringo, and Paul obediently began their trek towards the suite’s doorway with Ira trailing behind them. John didn’t budge. To further emphasize Eppy’s suspicions, he failed to even look up in their direction, wondering what orders he’d ceased to grasp hold of. The manager shot his eyes to the ceiling in a fit of internal distress. What on earth was on with him today? Whatever it was, he surely didn’t have the time to deal with it nor did he have the time to properly coax it from him as he’d prefer. How maddening! “ _John_!” the manager found himself shouting at him.

The remaining Beatle lifted his eyes finally and regarded him apathetically, his eyes glazed over in a display of indifference. While he blatantly had the competency to readily conclude by this point that his band mates had all gone and left him behind, he still made no move to follow in their footsteps.

“ _Well?_ ” Brian exasperatedly prodded, his already present irritation bubbling up even more at the sight of what he commonly perceived to be Lennon trapped in one of his difficult moods. “What are you waiting for, a bloody invitation? Haven’t you heard? We’re running late!”

“I suppose y’wish to blame me fer this, then?” John challenged, his wearied eyes narrowing.

Eppy furrowed his brow. “ _What_?”

“Being late.”

Brian sighed heavily, “John, really I’m not in the mood for whatever it is you’re getting at so please...” He gestured tiredly towards the door.

Still, John didn’t move towards it. “I want an apple,” he stated tiredly, petulantly, “I haven’t eaten yet today, y’know.”

The manager was past rationalizations. “It’ll have to wait, John!” he seethed uncontrollably, “You should’ve thought of that earlier while you were holed up in your room doing God knows what!” He knew he was in the wrong but he was desperate to save the day that quickly seemed to be going to hell in a basket. Timing was everything. And right now there wasn’t room for fulfilling even the smallest of requests. “Please try and understand. We’ll stop on the way! Better yet, I’ll arrange for you to have a snack once we arrive at our destination!” He was struggling now to get his pronounced aggravation under control but try as he might, he just couldn’t seem to tame his edges. Bloody hell, he hated his temper. Though he wasn’t immediately known for it, once it was provoked, he had a hard time putting it away. He was almost similar to Lennon in that sense.

John bristled, visibly put off by his words as well as his tone. “Piss off with yer bloody, fucking mood then, Brian!!” he sharply growled back, his eyes narrowing even more upon him, “Y’go about calling all the shots as ye’ always do, creating all the fucking hoops fer us to jump through like some kind of deranged ringmaster and still y’have room to bitch about every bloody little thing. It’s not a perfect world, Brian. So we’re fucking late for once. What happens next, the world explodes? _Christ_ , I’m _fucking sick_ of _molding to everyone’s selfish wants and needs!!_ I’m _sick_ of being told _what to do, how to dress, how to look, how to speak,_ how to _fucking scratch me arse fer fuck’s sake... I’m sick to death of all of it!!_ ” He was yelling by the time he was through, his blatant anger and the unambiguous message behind it causing Brian to shrink back uncomfortably in alarm, his face paling.

“John, what’s this about?” he dared to ask, softening his tone now while attempting to regain any bit of control over the spiraling situation, “Where’s this coming from?”

The rhythm guitarist scoffed scornfully, blinking back a collection of tears that threatened to spring from his eyes. “Now y’wish to ‘ave a chat?” he sneered mockingly, allowing his glazed over eyes an arrogant sweep over the older man’s face, “Would y’bloody like t’take some _tea_ while yer at it?!”

Brian opened his mouth and closed it, unsure of how to proceed.

Lennon scoffed again with a disgusted shake of the head, “Thought as much, y’fucking queer... Maybe you’d rather me bend down and pleasure ye’ instead!! What’s one more bloody _demand_ t’live up to?! What’s one more _fantasy_ t’fulfill?!”

Brian blushed deeply, his cheeks growing hot in an air of bewilderment. “That’s not... I-”

“Am I too repulsive now fer ye’, love?” the guitarist challenged, his tone as dark as his expression, “Am I no longer up to yer posh standards?”

The manager’s jaw was quivering now. “John... I-” he fruitlessly began, his voice trailing off once more, “I-”

“Now y’can’t speak,” John sneered, his own voice growing hoarse in his struggle to keep his miserable emotions at bay, “Bloody brilliant. Best thing to ‘appen in days.” He rolled his eyes, quickly growing bored with the new development he’d brought about. “I thought we were fucking _late_!” With that final announcement made, he started to push past Brian towards the door where a visually perturbed Ira now waited but was stopped midway through his attempt as the manager finally worked up the nerve to reach out and grab his arm.

“John, I demand that you tell me what’s going on with you this instant!” he sternly commanded. Despite the fresh authority in his tone, concern and hurt radiated from his eyes all the while.

After wiping frantically at teary eyes, John turned to face him halfheartedly and for a split second, looked as though he had every desire to break down and confide in him. Then just as instantly, the fragile look left his face and he pulled frantically away. “What’re y’trying to ‘ave me off, fucking fairy...” he grumbled. But his tone had lost all the fire of his earlier outburst. He didn’t even feel like talking anymore... let alone yelling. “Jus’ fucking piss off, Brian...” he murmured lamely, his voice cracking painfully. He turned away once again and advanced towards the door.

“John, please...” Brian beseechingly called after him.

Lennon reluctantly paused just inside the doorframe and drew in a deep breath while closing his eyes for the sole purpose of attempting to center his off-kilter state of mind. By the time he forcefully turned to face his manager, he felt a bit more in control of his actions. “What?” he quietly sighed. His voice despite presenting itself in its weakest, weariest manner yet, still held a clear edge of warning.

Brian’s eyes remained soft and full of increasing worry as he continued to regard him. _Great_. Lennon couldn’t help thinking. _He probably thinks I’m well on my way to a mental breakdown_. With the way he was going this morning, maybe he was.

“Won’t you talk to me?”

John sighed. What a waste of a question. Allowing his own expression to soften, more so out of physical exhaustion; he slapped on something of a small smirk, “There’s nothing to talk about, Brian...”

The manager shook his head and tried again, “You referred to yourself earlier as being... repulsive...” he hesitantly stated, “Quite preposterous, really. This has nothing to do with the local news, does it? Because if it upsets you, I’d be more than happy to settle things on your behalf.”

John’s face fell, his eyes resultantly dropping to the floor. So he knew. _Of course he knew. Why the hell wouldn’t he know?_

“You know you’re not fat, don’t you, Johnny?” Brian questioned in immediate absence of his response. “I didn’t think you’d be bothered by such rubbish...”

John lifted his eyes once more, his face a blank slate. “There’s nothing to talk about, Brian,” he repeated softly. _I’m a Beatle... so naturally nothing in the world ever bothers me..._ _I don’t think... I don’t feel... I’m practically a robot..._ _Just like how the world perceives me..._

Brian nodded solemnly, clear doubt present in his eyes as though he’d been able to read the train of thought following his short response. “Well, if you say so, John.” He didn’t know what else to say as far as the moment went. He was at wits end. Lost, confused, mentally tormented... all at the hand of his beloved rhythm guitarist.

Again, John rolled his eyes. “Of course I bloody say so, Eppy...” he loudly affirmed, managing now to sound a bit more like his old self, “...Now... let’s get this crap you’ve arranged over with already. We’re late, y’know.” He punctuated the statement with a characteristic cheeky wink and a tiny, fleeting smile that seemed for the sole purpose of sweeping his most recent meltdown under the nearest rug and instilling a protective façade in its place.

Though Brian could see through the poorly-crafted guise, he felt a bit better for the time being as he knew from experience that a Lennon smile in the aftermath of a Lennon explosion was the closest thing he’d ever get to a Lennon apology. At least he was making an attempt to push whatever was bothering him aside for the moment. This was more like it. The manager nodded, taking it in with a small smile of his own. “You’re all right then?” he asked.

“Better now,” the Beatle responded without missing a beat, “A-are you?” He seemed deeply shaken and ashamed of the pent-up anger he’d exhibited and clearly misdirected.

“Yes. Yes, I am, John,” Brian affirmed, pleased with the questioning of his wellbeing. Correction, this was the closest thing he’d get to a Lennon apology. He wondered vaguely what it was that had gotten him so up in arms in the first place. Rather than immediately dwelling on it, however, he took a step back and gestured once again for the rhythm guitarist to step out ahead of him. This time, Lennon obeyed. “As late as we are,” the manager nonchalantly went on to declare, “I suppose it’s better than being completely absent.”

John didn’t respond, his mind seeming to have escaped to other things once more.

“Are you sure you’re all right, John?” Brian asked, staring uneasily at the back of his auburn head.

John nodded. No words needed. ‘ _Just get through the day, Lennon..._ ’ he mentally told himself, ‘ _It’s all you can do to keep from falling apart. It’s all you’ve got to do..._ ’

 


	6. Slow Down

The ride to the photo shoot was painfully quiet; no one speaking and no one feeling up to holding even the smallest bit of conversation for sanity’s sake. John had closed his eyes on instant and pretended to doze off; shutting himself off from the questioning eyes of his band mates, giving them little chance to attempt banter as he’d suspected they were dying to do. What he was going through; whatever the bloody hell it was, was none of their business and the sods could bugger off for all he cared. They were much too nosy for their own good. Always in the business of those whose business they had no business being in... _‘Are you all right, John?’ ‘What’s wrong with you, Johnny?’ ‘What’s got you browned off now, Lennon?’_ He could almost hear the very collection of words forming on each their tongues. _‘Mind yer bloody, fucking business!’_ he wanted to shout back to each of their unformulated interrogations. _‘I’m fucking fine!’_ Wasn’t he though? Wasn’t he fine? _‘No...’_ a small voice in the back of his mind presently piped up. _‘No you’re not. Not this time.’_

John squeezed his eyes tighter willing the blissful throes of sleep to take him away. For the moment, a lack of conscious awareness was the ultimate goal in life or rather the temporary fix-all. Sometimes, Lennon truly believed he was happiest lost within the realm of his deepest of dreams. Concealed within his own subconscious creations, he could be _anything_ he wished. He could have _anything_ he fancied. He could have _everything_ he’d ever longed for, and truth be told, these days found him longing for quite a bit. He longed for the simplicity of his earlier years bound to Liverpool and even to Hamburg. He longed to hear his uncle’s magnetic laugh resonating once more through the halls of Mendips. He longed for the love and approval of an estranged father. He longed for Stu’s welcome honesty in a world of lies and false hope. More than ever, he longed for Julia— and that contagious smile of hers forever coupled with that devious glint in her eyes as she’d successfully manage to spin the right words to make anything and everything all right. Because while he’d had at least one of these things, everything was right. Behind closed eyes, however, it was all there; ever a constant and as plain as the sun in the sky on an alluring summer day. Within his realm of dreams, longing became a reality. He was happy. He was carefree. He was _alive_. He was above the endless exhaustion. He was above accompanying depression; physically, mentally, and emotionally draining. He couldn’t inwardly and deeply loath himself because... there simply wasn’t reason to. Sleep... Sleep... Why couldn’t he just make it happen already? The answer was obvious. There was too much plaguing his mind. And the timing couldn’t be any more inconvenient. He was through with the endless daymare that was life and he still couldn’t seem to shake his stupid headache.

Perhaps he could save his mates the useless and bothersome trouble of wondering about his mental state of being and audibly reveal the source of his angst and distress. Maybe he’d benefit from that as well. But then again... in order for one to actually take such a step, one would actually have to know and understand what was wrong with one’s self... It shamed John that he couldn’t even begin to put it into words. Try as he might, all he could come up with was: _‘I’m not okay. Help me be okay...’_ Nancy shite... Bloody bollocks the lot of it. He thought again, harder this time. _‘I feel disgusting... and fat... Suffocated and unwanted... I’m a disgrace to myself and the supposed image of the band. Help me... Help...’_ Help. Christ... it was no wonder he’d written such a song. He really needed help. _‘Help me!’_ his mind roared with such force, it was a wonder his mouth hadn’t faultily released the message simultaneously. Such a feat most likely wouldn’t have resulted in much more than the drawing of unwarranted attention to himself. Attention he didn’t want much less need at the moment. It wouldn’t change a thing, anyway. He was sure of it. In the end he’d still be miserable John Lennon, same as before. Same as he’d woken up. Same as he’d go to bed. Same as he’d been for years and years and years... And it was with this unnerving revelation that he finally managed to drift into the throes of a light and troubled sleep.

“Up and at ‘em boys! We’ve arrived at our destination!”

John stirred unwillingly, flinching at Eppy’s cheery voice. For a split moment, he had no idea where he resided or what instance in time commanded his attention. Then slowly, the moment dawned on him, lazily clearing away the cobwebs of his seemingly malfunctioning brain. He had just been with Julia, he vaguely remembered, recalling with ease the last bit of his dream he’d been able to grasp hold of. She’d been about to...

“Lennon!”

The rhythm guitarist groaned inwardly as a sharp pain brought on by Brian’s verbal impatience subsequently rattled his skull. Never before had his name brought forth such physical pain. “Fuck off...” he heard himself growl. He relaxed only slightly as the acute discomfort died down after a few seconds leaving behind the familiar dull ache he’d been nursing for the past hour. As it turned out, he’d never find out what Julia was about to tell him. He grudgingly opened his eyes.

“Now, now, John... We’ve an important photo shoot ahead of us!” came Eppy’s voice of reason, “Surely you haven’t forgotten.”

It was a stupid statement. Of course he hadn’t forgotten. “ _Surely_ , I haven’t tried hard enough...” was Lennon’s sardonic response. He rose, nonetheless, despite an incessant ringing in his ears and trailing behind his three mates, proceeded to follow their manager into a large brick building.

John’s stomach growled plaintively as he entered the structure, the intrusive noise signaling once again, his growing hunger. He really should’ve eaten something, he realized. Somehow though, a tiny part of him couldn’t help feeling relieved he hadn’t yet had the chance to do so. And that same part was now growing, pushing him to keep on with the devious act. ‘ _You’re only hurting yourself, Lennon..._ ’ his mind tried to warn him. Wrong. He was _helping_ himself. What he _could_ of himself, anyway.

“Y’look tired, John,” George presently prodded as the rhythm guitarist trudged alongside him.

“Yeah, so?”

“Y’slept the entire way here! ...Are y’certain nothing’s wrong?”

“Can’t I be tired without there bloody being something behind it?” John snapped at him without really meaning to.

George frowned. He had said no such thing. “It’s just an observation...I—”

“Great. Anything else y’want to point out?” John involuntarily interrupted. Again, he hadn’t meant to snap but... he just couldn’t seem to help it.

George quietly shook his head and looked away, afraid to say much more.

Ashamed of his explosive temper, John did the same. Maybe it was his growing hunger responsible... or the bloody ringing in his ears he still couldn’t seem to rid himself of. Maybe he was simply tired. _Tired._ More like worn from the inside out. Physically, mentally, and emotionally battered. Regardless, it was all driving him off the deep end.

“...arranged another interview for today following this morning’s photo shoot...”

John’s ears had managed to pick up on that much. “...What?” he found himself questioning though he wasn’t sure he’d actually authorized his mouth to contribute to the conversation that had been going on without him. His heart hammered in his chest at the should-be harmless word that had become so impossibly ugly within the past 12 hours. _Interview._

“Interview.” Paul swung his eyes to him. “Are you all right? Yer white as a sheet!”

“Fine. I’m fine...” John swallowed hard, once again, avoiding the gaze of his best mate.

“Are you sure? Yer—”

“Bugger off, would ye’?” His head swam strangely with the raising of his voice. Momentarily caught off guard, he quickly forced himself to regain composure, managing to steady himself with a deep calming breath. His hands shook, nonetheless, and nausea clawed at his innards. He was beginning to feel more like crap than he’d originally bargained for.

Swallowing hard once more, he forced his body to keep it all at bay. Here, there wasn’t room for the tense, shaky, weak, commanding grip of hunger or for the accompanying headache that was increasingly beginning to drum up trouble within his tension-filled skull. Here, there wasn’t room for the pity party his mind seemed keen on throwing. No. Not here on the set of some over-extravagant, posh photo shoot. Not now. Possibly not ever. _Now_ it was truly time to put on another mask and construct the best façade of his life indicative that everything was going as swimmingly as could be. Because that’s what Brian would want. Lennon scoffed with ample disdain. He really didn’t feel he had the energy to go head to head with him today despite wanting nothing more than to be able to do so. Today, he just might jump through all the right hoops... John shook his head, beginning to suspect he wasn’t thinking at all clearly. What would make him want to comply so easily? What would make him want to mold to Epstein’s wishes? He was looking for the easiest way through this, was all. He was tired. Tired of resisting. Tired of existing. Plain tired. And bottom line, he couldn’t let the world see that he was barely hanging on. He couldn’t let them win. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could get to bed.

“Over here, lads!” Eppy called, directing them towards a man John felt was probably in charge of the shoot in all its entirety. “I want you to meet—”

The ringing increased within Lennon’s ears right then, inadvertently drowning out the rest of his manager’s words. He stumbled as an array of purple stars began to fill his vision.

“John, what are you doing?” Paul’s skeptical eyes were on him once more.

“Nothing. I tripped...” His own voice sounded much too far away...

“Over what?”

Lennon frowned. “I-I—”

“Y’feeling all right, mate? You really don’t look that good.”

“Idon—”His tongue felt suddenly thick, slurring his words. His vision dimmed slightly.

“Hey, what’s the matter with ye’?” Ringo chimed in. But he sounded miles away.

“... I think you should sit down...” Several hands worked at getting him seated on the bare floor.

“Get him water.”

A water bottle magically appeared in his heavy hand.

“Drink.”

Lennon wasn’t sure how but he obeyed.

After a few sips paired with the fact that he was no longer standing, his vision began to defog itself once more and sound, once muffled, began to regain its usual crispness.

“He hasn’t eaten all day. Get him a muffin,” he heard Brian tell someone.

That too appeared in his hand.

“Eat!” Brian sternly ordered, “It’s got plenty of sugar. Should be enough to get you up and running.”

John reluctantly nibbled at the muffin’s golden top. His stomach churned in reaction to his proceedings. He felt sick.

“How’re y’feeling?” Ringo casually asked, “Still faint?”

John’s cheeks burned with embarrassment at the reminder of his earlier mishap. “Better...” he mumbled. It was a partial truth as he no longer felt faint... just tired and a bit nauseated.

“Good. Finish that muffin.”

One by one, everyone left his side, eager to carry on with the day’s events. Halfheartedly, John continued with his muffin, knowing full well, he remained under the watchful eye of not only Eppy but his mates as well. He was a little more than halfway through when his stomach protested altogether, prompting him to discard the remains of it into the nearest trash bin. A muffin was the last thing he should be eating, anyway, he realized. Was he not struggling with a weight problem? Sure enough, as discreet as he believed his actions to be, they all but went unnoticed.

“John...” Ringo appeared suddenly at his side. “Y’didn’t finish—”

“I don’t need it,” John snapped, “Bloody thing was making me nauseous. I’m sure you’d rather not see the result of that now, would ye’?” He arched a suggestive eyebrow at the drummer, knowing deep inside he had what it took to make him flinch.

Ringo made a face indicating blatant feelings on the subject. “Well, at least ye’ ate most of it, anyroad... Keep drinking water though. And don’t think fer a minute yer missing out on lunch.”

John rolled his eyes, waving him off. Bloody hell. The sooner he got this stupid day over with, the sooner he could get to bed.

 


	7. Hello, Goodbye

For the hundredth time that day, Brian Epstein’s shaking hands found his temples, his nimble fingers desperate to alleviate the tension building behind them. This day was sure to be the death of him if things didn’t change their set course of destructive action. Lennon in particular, would have him six feet under at his own will. Not once had the rhythm guitarist put down his heavy-duty shovel. Since the start of the day, he’d been digging and digging and digging, and needless to say, the creation of a proper Epstein-sized grave complete with a tombstone was well underway. Strangely enough, the demented idea sounded favorable for the time being despite its morbidity. What could the Beatles’ manager gain from his own burial site? Perhaps a little peace of mind? Solitude? Brian frantically shook away the thought. Unlikely. John would find a way to disrupt that as well. It wasn’t so much that he despised dealing with Lennon and those unpredictable, often virulent mood swings of his. It was more that... he was hurt. He was actually hurt that the rhythm guitarist would rather carry on with his ridiculous, callous charades rather than take the time to talk to him as Brian had earlier prodded him, more like _begged_ him to do. It was blatant something was bothering him. Yet, the stubborn musician had somehow managed to look him square in the eye and lie about it.

Initially, the manager had felt slightly relieved that John was willing to look past his own issues and carry on with the day as though nothing was wrong. He hadn’t felt equipped, in the least bit; to deal with the alternative which would in turn, unleash a petulant John Lennon set on bringing everyone about him down to his level of misery with that sharp tongue of his. Unfortunately, as the day wore on and John’s fretful attitude continued to unfold itself, Brian found himself reeling in a bit of that relief like a disappointed fisherman that had lost his only catch. While John had managed to keep his sharp tongue in check for the most part, he’d failed on his mood altogether. Not only was he was still managing to bring down everyone around him, but he was inadvertently contributing to unneeded distractions within the mind of his manager. And to make matters worse, now that his ‘supposed’ point had been made and his lies crafted, he would no longer make eye contact with him or even Paul for that matter. Whenever either of their eyes would begin to sweep in his direction, Lennon’s would unmistakably skirt away.

_‘What’s going on with you, John?’_ he’d find himself wondering of Lennon at the least convenient of times. _‘And why won’t you talk to me? Don’t you trust me? Your manager? Your friend?’_

Epstein knew of one thing. It wasn’t like John to lie in regards to his feelings. If something was bothering him, _everyone_ was bound to hear about it regardless of whether or not they asked for it. He was as brutally honest as he was sharp-witted.

“Shouldn’t John be back by now?” Ringo presently whined, his words drawing Brian from his endless reveries, “He’s holding up the remainder of the day!”

George nodded his agreement. “I’m right knackered... and hungry!”

Paul rolled his eyes, equally troubled. “Once again, your stomach obtains priority over the rest of us, Havva! What _else_ is new?”

“Those birds are new, y’know!” George cheekily affirmed, his eyes widening in instant captivation as they locked on and began following a slew of models in bathing suits.

“Behave yerself, Georgie. They’re much too sophisticated fer ye’!” Ringo teased.

“What’s that say fer ye’, Starr?” George tossed back, “Y’must be a caveman in their eyes! Yer primitive enough!”

“What does it matter?” Paul chimed in, “Stick y’both next t’me and I’m pretty sure we know who the captivator is!”

“Piss off, McCartney!” both George and Ringo sharply chorused, fixating him with twin glares.

Paul chuckled.

Tuning them all out, Brian glanced at his watch. How long had it been since Lennon had requested a break? A minute? Two minutes? His eyes widened as the truth sprung from the face of his watch. Ten minutes?! He’d only been cleared for five! Their subsequent interview loomed dangerously close, an hour and a half away to be exact, and they still had a handful of photographs to be taken. There was no way they could get from point A to point B in a timely fashion without shaving the minutes off from somewhere! Or eliminating something entirely. Lunch! They’d potentially be forced to postpone lunch till after the interview where they’d simply _have_ to find the time. The Beatles would _not_ be happy.

“I’m gonna go introduce meself!” George presently asserted.

“I’m sure they _know_ who ye’ are,” Ringo stated knowingly, “And if they _wanted_ to meet ye’, they’d be over ‘ere doing so already. Don’t flatter yerself!” He added the last part as playful banter but it was blatantly lost on the overly hungry, overly tired, uncontrollably irritated lead guitarist.

“What do _you_ know?” he half snapped, half whined.

“He’s right,” Paul sing-songed, playing along, “I think they’re rather Paul fans, anyroad.” He waved at one in particular. She caught his eye, giggled, and waved back. “See?” he confirmed, “Or y’could go see fer yerself!”

“Neither of y’sods know anything!” George grumbled. Still, he didn’t budge from his spot. Instead, he remained seated like a child in the throes of a temper tantrum.

Paul laughed, “Relax, Geo, I’m jus’ having ye’ on, y’know! A bit of harmless fun, really.”

“Sod off!”

Again, Paul laughed.

Eppy sighed as he looked on. McCartney’s release of joviality seemed hollow. Today, it often was. Lark about as he might, his mind was always elsewhere and it wasn’t on food. The manager confirmed his earlier conclusion based on the revelation. John was distracting everyone with his mood. Ringo, George... _Paul_ in particular. Perhaps he’d wait to reveal such information as suddenly irrelevant as a suspended lunch. For the time being, he’d focus on something else entirely. The whereabouts of Lennon. He’d be right damned if these repeated mysteries weren’t becoming the common theme for the day.

 

* * *

 

The bathroom hadn’t been particularly kind. Not in the least bit. Mirrors. Mirrors had been everywhere, each reflective facade a reminder of how lackluster the so-called glamorous world of John Lennon had become. He’d turn away from one only to be faced with another, his stupid reflection taunting his every move. His every thought. His sole existence.

Christ, and if to add fuel to the fire, he’d recently begun seeing his father every time he’d glimpse his face. At first, he’d thought maybe he’d gone mad and was simply seeing things. But as he attempted to blink away the image, it would remain. His father’s eyes were his eyes. His father’s nose was his nose. While he’d always heard how much he resembled good ol’ Freddy Lennon, he’d refused to let himself see it, always opting to seek out his mum’s features instead. But now, something different was taking place and he hardly saw his mum anymore despite her strong presence in his features. She’d faded out, his father had faded in. _All the way in._ Now, it was his father’s head sitting atop his stupid body and if that wasn’t enough to fuel his unyielding hate of himself, he didn’t know what was. But the mirror didn’t last long. None of them did. In an instant, their remains were scattered across the bathroom’s tile floor, the only evidence of their demise surfacing within the raw and bloodied knuckles of a tormented guitarist’s right hand. And without a second thought, he turned in his tracks and evacuated the bathroom, leaving behind the mess to whatever poor sap happened upon it next.

“You’re John Lennon!”

Caught off guard, Lennon shoved his wounded hand in his pocket, out of sight and out of mind and fixed the bird who dared to address him outside the men’s loo with a look of fleeting surprise. Driven by instinct, he automatically erased his expression, quickly replacing it with a look of cynical disinterest. “So they say,” he answered lazily, a bored tone undermining his voice.

The scantily clad bird smiled anyway. Her green eyes, set off by thick brunette bangs and long accompanying tresses, sparkled genuinely with the action. “Genevieve LePierre. Gigi the Glamorous to the _world_! Gigi for short.”

When John didn’t immediately respond, she kept talking animatedly, “I’m modeling on the set of the beach photo shoot taking place after yours.”

The added information was unnecessary. Lennon had already made the connection in his head. Not only was she a rising starlet known to half or even all of Europe but she certainly looked the part as well. In truth, she was a bit of all right. More than all right, really. Still, he impatiently rolled his eyes in no mood for small talk. “What a coincidence! I’m a Beatle posing on the set of the photo shoot that’s taking place _before_ yours,” he sardonically retaliated, outwardly mocking her excitement. If she wanted to state the obvious, he could do that just as well.

“I know...” Gigi responded, unfazed by his darkening mood. The girl began rambling on about the Beatles and their music and how she supposedly favored him, John Lennon. John only listened with half a mind, his frenzied brain unable to process a whole lot stemming from the model’s mouth. She was young, he concluded. 19 or so. And mentally, she seemed even younger, not to mention a bit naïve. The way she had greeted him was proof of that. She’d fallen prey in an instant to Beatlemania, surrounding herself with a projected air of star-struck enthrallment. Much too naïve, she was far from jaded. Much too airborne to be grounded by the trials and tribulations that was fame. Blatantly, she was in the honeymoon stage of it all. And Lennon couldn’t possibly envy her anymore than he already did. He remembered his honeymoon stage all too well despite the fact that it seemed like ages ago. He’d been somewhat happier then. Much slimmer. Known then for his wit rather than his weight... The rhythm guitarist frowned at the unpermitted resurfacing of his current predicament, his thoughts abruptly trailing off as a result. Without entirely knowing why, his eyes began to wander and he found himself taking in Gigi’s full appearance with ample scrutiny, noticing something for the first time that local magazine exposure hadn’t even elucidated. Her ribs. She was _much_ thinner in person than the media portrayed. All photographs he’d seen of her had to have been touched up before being shipped off for the world to see. Was there such a thing as being too thin? No matter what, the world was never satisfied. They’d do anything in their power to shape those in the limelight to accepted perfection. Even if it meant slinging about hurtful words. It was unnatural. From what he could see, there was a single weight standard. A set one for females and a set one for males. If one was above that standard, he or she was fat. If one was below, he or she was at the brink of starvation. Either way, people would talk. Either way, they’d find a way to make one feel like absolute shite. However, if he had a choice, he’d rather be at the opposite end of the spectrum from where he currently resided. Maybe then, what truly mattered about him would shine once more. Oddly enough, he couldn’t seem to recall what that even was. His wit? His charisma? His talent? None of it seemed remotely extraordinary. Not anymore.

As if sensing his troubles and reading a bit of his mind, Gigi stopped abruptly mid-sentence and mirroring Lennon’s initial actions, looked him up and down, “You know, for the one they call fat, you do not seem to fit the façade much in person.”

Lennon tensed, his self-consciousness increasing even more. “Right...” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. Abruptly reminded of his crude mirror war in the loo; his hand, still concealed from view within his pocket, began throbbing harshly in a stop and start rhythm. His head ached. Strangely enough, it made him feel sick all over again. Not that he’d felt particularly good to begin with. The hunger-induced shakes had been attacking him on and off since his fainting spell but as of an hour ago, they seemed permanently keen on sticking around. Faintness had become almost residual. Apprehension clawed at him from the inside out. Suddenly he didn’t feel he could hide anything. There was no proper amount of Lennon wit and charm that could construct the mask strong enough to wave off how messed up he was becoming. How messed up he already was.

“I-I have t’get back,” he muttered quickly, his eyes averting his unsought out companion. It was a truth. Eppy and the others were probably ready to eat his soul for breakfast, lunch, and dinner... Or at least dinner. _Dinner_... Even better _lunch_... How brilliant it sounded! Perhaps, he’d take Ringo up on his command and actually partake in lunch... Maybe there’d be jam butties... or even _better_ , bacon butties! _‘Stop right there, Lennon!’_ the familiar voice that was his mind snarled. _‘Have you no self-control?’_ John frowned at the unfortunate realization. He’d done so well for himself thus far! There was no way he could give in and throw it all away so soon! He’d have to remain strong... Even if it killed him.

“ _John_?” At some point, Gigi had gotten into his face and was irritatingly snapping a finger an inch from his nose in attempt to capture his attention.

“Bloody ‘ell, what is it?!” the frazzled rhythm guitarist growled at her in utter unmasked aggravation. He flushed immediately, remorse overtaking him. A quiet apology slipped from his lips.

“I was trying to say how you are quite...” She faltered, her slight language barrier putting her at a loss for words, “tres beau...” she finished solemnly.

Feeling an additional blush beginning to eat at his cheeks, John turned away, unsure as to what was fueling his behavior now. Modesty wasn’t entirely like him. Not where a model was involved anyroad. Maybe it was humiliation. Shame. He really was a right mess.

“You do not understand...” Gigi stated, cringing immediately at the wrong word that punctuated her statement. She shook her head frantically, struggling to recall the right one, “You do not _believe_ ,” she concluded knowingly, successfully fixing her faux pas, “You’re tres mal, mon ami. Not happy.”

John rubbed at his forehead with his left hand, momentarily closing his eyes. For a brief instance, he felt a bit light in the head. Dizzy. He shook away the disabling feeling and reopened his eyes with a glare for the model that thought she knew everything. She couldn’t be any more clueless. Clueless like that tart of a reporter he’d dealt with however many days ago. “Tread softly, love,” he found himself snarling menacingly, much warning present in his voice. “Yer tramplin’ on uncharted territory.” Before worse could be said at the hand of his rapidly growing anger directed not quite at her but at himself, he turned, breaking eye contact and made the decision to dismiss himself.

Hurriedly choosing to ignore his unveiled threats, Gigi was already more than halfway into another unauthorized statement. “I have way to help!” she announced at his back, broken English working overtime, “Top _model_ secret!”

John stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn to face her.

“It’s a constant struggle, my body. I had to lose 30 pounds just to get to where I am today. My secret? I purge.” She talked excitedly at his back, her unseen hands working overtime to emphasize her message, “It is why I am still able to enjoy what I love. It is safer because I’m not depriving myself of what I need to survive. I take it in and then... I uh...” she fizzled out again, English words thwarting her, “What is it? Thr... throw... throw up!” she finished proudly, “Tres simple.”

And John took in the absurd advice without letting on that he was doing so. And without a word other than, “Ta,” he walked off. He doubted that she understood the meaning of the word. He couldn’t care less.

“You are still my favorite, John Lennon!” she called after him, “Tres beau!”

Pretending to be out of earshot, John didn’t respond. He didn’t need her bloody approval to make him feel better about himself. Nor did she need his acknowledgment. From what he’d seen prior to his encounter, she was well on her way to the top of her kind. And she’d get there no matter what. Regardless, he couldn’t help but briefly smile. Nice bird, really. It was a shame she hadn’t caught him on a better day. It was a shame she hadn’t caught his better side.


	8. Get Back

The morning, already filled to the brim with imperfections, only continued to fall apart as it wore on. While the others seemed to be completely in their element at all times regardless of whether or not they actually were, John found he was completely trapped in the realm of exhaustion, irritation, and hunger. To make matters worse, there hadn’t been a single pose he’d been placed in that he actually liked and it quickly got to the point where he found himself merely going through the motions just to get it all done and over with. Smiles felt fake, poses felt forced, conversations felt meaningless. Hell, even the frown he felt obligated to wear didn’t entirely meet standards. Had it been doing its job in the first place, everyone might know by first glance to sod the hell off and leave him alone. Instead, they were permanently in his face with their stupid makeup and changes of clothes and endless bottles of water. _‘Just a touch up here,’_ they’d tell him while coming at him, unwarranted, with face powder, _‘You’re looking a bit shiny.’_ _‘A little bit more beneath his eyes—he looks tired.’_ Tired. Didn’t they understand that that was the least of his problems? Had that been his only issue, he would easily be able to chase it away with a good night’s sleep and all would be fine and dandy. He couldn’t in any way sleep away half his body weight. He couldn’t sleep away his unhappiness. And worse, he could hardly sleep at all because he was so goddamn miserable.

After what may as well have been the fifteenth attempt at bringing to light the final photo shot of the Beatles as a whole, staff was getting increasingly antsy and disillusioned by the rhythm guitarist’s ongoing and steadily worsening petulant attitude.

“Bloody hell, Lennon, can’t you just comply with what the studio photographer says once and for all and stop being so difficult?” Eppy beseechingly questioned the rhythm guitarist, his tone nothing short of exasperated.

“Haven’t we bloody well done enough?” was John’s snappy remark, “I’ve posed so fucking much, I’ve lost the feeling in me bloody joints!” He made a show of massaging his neck. “I feel like a fucking contortionist in a bloody circus act! Forget it. I’m done!”

Under normal circumstances, Eppy would’ve felt more than obligated to argue. But something in John’s face made him suppress every contradictory word resultantly spun up by his brain. With a sigh, he gave in and went to talk to the photographer. Judging by the dwindling amount of time left in the hour, it was about time they thought about moving on, anyway. Bloody hell, they were always moving, weren’t they? Blimey! Twenty-four hours simply weren’t enough to cover a day’s events anymore.

As Eppy stalked away, he dropped a passing word to Mal who nodded somewhat reluctantly and strolled over to the four boys that had been left to their own devices.

Paul was halfway through a sentence of a conversation that he was sharing with Ringo when he felt the shadow, indicative of an additional body approaching, fall upon him. A quick glance up from Ringo’s eye-level brought about the realization that it was Mal. Making way for the tall man to officially join in on their banter; he ceased all talk to offer him a friendly smile. “Hello, Mal!” he greeted him without the slightest bit of hesitation.

“Paul,” Mal acknowledged him with a small nod and a responsive though slightly wavering smile.

“Is something the matter?” Ringo asked, taking automatic note of the concealed dejection within the older man’s tone.

Mal paused and took in a deep breath before allowing more words to flow from his mouth, “I have just received some unpleasant news that I’m right certain you boys won’t be happy to hear,” he began slowly with caution.

His statement managed to catch even the restricted attention of George who’d been busy using the band’s momentary lull in activity to continue his unrestrained, lust-filled ogling of the unsuspecting models across the room. “What is it, Mal?” he questioned, hurriedly turning to face him.

Paul frowned in disbelief, his gaze shifting briefly from Mal to George and back again. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, “I’ve been trying to get Harrison’s attention going on several minutes now. You show up, make one statement, and here he is, hanging on yer every word!”

“I knew all along y’were jus’ trying to discourage me from all the birds,” George responded starkly, “So I ignored ye’.” He punctuated his statement with a smug smirk before returning his gaze back to Mal.

Ringo couldn’t help but chuckle. Typical George. Plain and simple. Straight forward as can be.

Mal cleared his throat before taking up where he left off. “I’m afraid to reveal that your lunch hour has unfortunately been pushed back until after your interview. A right shame, really as I know how hungry you all are.”

Paul visibly relaxed in the face of the revelation, displaying his feelings with a flippant wave of the hand, “Oh, is that all?” he asked nonchalantly, “I thought something bad was—”

“ _Hungry_?” George echoed incredulously, cutting unexpectedly into Paul’s discharge of relief, “Try _ravenous_ , Mal!”

Paul rolled his eyes, quickly seeking out George’s outburst as being melodramatic. “ _Ravenous_? The only thing you’re _ravenous_ for, George, is those lovely models y’keep staring at!”

“‘S’not true, Paul! I ‘aven’t eaten since this morning! I was looking forward to a good meal being next on the list of events!”

Ringo smirked knowingly, “Y’were looking fer one of those _birds_ to being next on yer list of events. Food wasn’t even on yer mind till Mal brought it up!”

“It was!” George argued petulantly, “Y’don’t know what me stomach was thinking so sod off!” Blocking out both Ringo and Paul, he turned to Mal, his eyes searching for confirmation. “So we’re going straight into our interview without even a small bite to eat?” he asked.

Slowly, the road manager broke into a faint nod, his eyes projecting forth all the remorse in the world. “I’m afraid so, George.”

“But... _why_?” George half asked, half whined , “It’s been _hours_ since me last meal, y’know! And _earlier_ , y’guys said that we’d get to—”

“I know what we said, George,” Mal sighed heavily while struggling to maintain his calm composure, “Unfortunately, things change. The important thing to keep in mind is that you _will_ eventually get to eat. Just... not until after the interview. I realize that’s not quite what you were hoping for but—”

“How do we know y’won’t go and change things again?” George snapped, his hunger-fueled words filled with venom, “How do we know we’ll even _see_ another meal before the day’s end? How do we know—” He trailed off abruptly only to begin again at a different angle to the same problem that lay in his way, “I’ll bloody starve, won’t I? Bloody hell, this is all Lennon’s fault, isn’t it? If he hadn’t spent all that time in the bloody loo, bloody wanking off or whatnot, I’d—”

“That’s enough, Geo!” Paul quickly intervened, growing sick of his endless tirade, “I—”

“It’s _your_ fault too!” George turned on him, his face contorted in direct irritation as he jabbed a finger at the bassist’s chest, “All those first takes on set jus’ weren’t good enough fer ye’, were they? You just had to look prim, proper, and perfect in _all_ of ‘em, didn’t ye’, McCartney?!”

McCartney sighed, his eyes briefly rising up to meet the ceiling tiles before lowering back down to his youngest band mate’s level. “I’m going to go ahead and ignore that because I’m certain it’s yer stomach talking over yer brain,” he levelly informed him.

“Me stomach _is_ talking!” George was whining once again, his anger replacing itself with self-pity, “It’s professing its _hunger_!”

Mal frowned and walked away. Watching him depart the scene, Paul couldn’t help but envy him.

Ringo found himself shaking his head as he crept closer to the flustered bassist, “I should hope these meltdowns won’t become a habit for our George...” he whispered discreetly, his words strictly for the ears of the band’s third oldest.

“He’s jus’ stressed,” Paul automatically responded, “Stressed and hungry don’t go hand in hand least of all fer George.”

“But we’re all stressed and hungry!” Ringo hissed back through gritted teeth, “That doesn’t give us the right to start verbally attacking each other!”

Paul shook his head, biting back a sigh. “No, it doesn’t.” He turned to George who had lapsed recently into an uneasy silence. Though the lead guitarist’s face remained twisted into a scowl, the bassist almost didn’t want to say anything to risk undoing the bliss that had recently fallen. George _had_ grown quiet after all. Paul allowed forth his restricted sigh. If only he hadn’t known any better. He knew enough to tell that this wasn’t George’s usual ‘I don’t wish to talk because I have nothing to say kind of silence.’ It was more of a tantrum. Like one a three year old might have by vowing to hold his breath until he got his way. If such childish antics prevailed especially as their interview loomed closer, a delayed lunch certainly wouldn’t be the worst thing the day would have in store for them. Driven by the exposed logic, McCartney finally opened his mouth. “Look George, I don’t like the way things are going anymore than you do... but it is what it is. So we have to wait a bit longer than expected to partake in lunch and a much needed break. What if we do? An extra hour or two isn’t going to kill anyone least of all you!” Lecture finished, he analytically took in Harrison’s less than pleased reaction before glancing briefly at his two remaining mates for much needed support, “Right boys?” he elbowed Ringo.

“Right!” Ringo chirped automatically.

Without waiting for John who more or less was sulking in his own little world, Paul turned back to George, ready to take on his response. Ringo found himself turning to John, meanwhile; noticing something Paul hadn’t allowed himself to fully register. Lennon hadn’t even glanced in Paul’s direction following his plea for support, let alone responded. Seemingly distant and potentially in another universe altogether, his gaze was fixated on the floor.

Ringo frowned pensively as he stared at John with surfacing wonder. Had he even heard Mal’s news? Had he even the slightest clue of what was going on about him? He’d thought things had seemed quiet. Especially when George had gone about laying blame on John in particular for the unfortunate misgivings that had befallen them. Had John taken the time to process such accusations, there was a small but very real chance that every bone in the offending lead guitarist’s accusatory body would be broken by now. And if not, he’d certainly have gotten a brutal earful.

The drummer briefly removed his eyes from John and swung them back to his two other band mates to see if any of them were taking in any of what he was seeing and forming similar conclusions in their heads. They weren’t. Paul was still talking to George who looked, to his relief much calmer now, and Mal had even rejoined their conversation. “I’ll see if I can track down a muffin to tie you over until after the interview, all right?” he vowed, in the process of negotiating with George, “I won’t have another one of you boys fainting on me today. Lennon’s incident was hardly a disaster averted as it was.”

Ringo had to smile. Mal was genuinely sympathetic inside and out. It was no doubt he cared for each their wellbeing. Partially grateful that George’s situation was being taken care of, he turned back to John to find that his gaze was still fixated on the floor... in the same spot... Probably the same tile... of the floor. Probably the same grain of dirt on the same tile of the floor. He hadn’t moved. And Ringo had had enough. This was too peculiar even for Lennon who’d been acting anything but normal the vast majority of the day. “John?” he prodded finally.

No response. Hardly a blink.

“John?”

More of the same.

Sucking in a lungful of air, he tried again. “John!!” he bellowed, the elevation in his voice causing all conversation near to him to cease.

Lennon jumped with a start, blinking rapidly as confusion descended upon him like a heavy blanket. “What?” he snapped.

Ringo faltered. Now that he had gotten John’s attention, he realized that he had no idea how to proceed with the conversation he had stirred up. “What on earth have you been thinking about?” he asked, acting upon the first thought to cross his mind.

“What?”

“Y’were really out of it jus’ now.”

“So?”

“You’ve missed quite a bit. Are you all right?”

“Fine... Fine!” The rhythm guitarist’s entire demeanor proceeded to go from appearing caught off guard to blatant irritation in the blink of Ringo’s eyes. “Mind yer bloody business, Ringo, would ye’?!” he harshly added, his words matching his change in manner.

Ringo frowned, “I only asked if y’were all right, John. I wasn’t seeking out yer bloody alibi, y’know!”

“Well whether or not I’m all right or not is _more_ than y’need to know!” John growled irrationally, “I’m _fine_ , Ringo. Fine! F-I-N-E!! Y’wanna run off to the reporters with that bit of information? John Lennon is _fine_? Well go ‘ead! It’s right up there with all the other colorful words they describe me with! Grab a dictionary while yer at it. In fact, if y’flip the pages back a bit, you’ll find another word! F-A...” Lennon trailed off without warning, realizing right then what his uncontained anger was about to reveal. His weakness. His latest weakness. The subject of his ‘newfound body image’. Over his dead body, he was going to let the bloody press win by allowing them to witness him admitting out loud to such a thing. True or not. “I jus’ wanna get out of ‘ere...” he half-whispered, half moaned.

Without waiting to see how Ringo fared through his uncalled for explosion, he turned away with feigned disinterest in him altogether. How he hated himself right then. Ringo was only concerned. He didn’t have to go off on him as he did... But then again, he didn’t have to do half the things he somehow ended up doing either. He didn’t have to be an arse to Eppy earlier... or Paul... or George... or Gigi... but he’d done so anyway. He didn’t have to do the opposite of what was right for him... but he did that too. He was backwards. So bloody backwards that he couldn’t even stop himself in the slightest from considering the poisonous words of one glamorous model. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her advice since he’d received it... and somehow without even realizing it, he’d made his decision.

“John!!” Paul and Ringo chorused in unison, instantly breaking his concentration.

Again, the rhythm guitarist found himself blinking in a fit of confusion followed by ample frustration. “Christ, what?!!” he barked, once reality had managed to take hold once more.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Paul asked, his tone a blatant contrast to John’s, “You’re more distant and moody today than I’ve seen ye’ in months! And that’s saying quite a lot!”

“I’m bloody fine! What aren’t y’gits getting about that?!”

“Me arse yer fine!” Paul asserted indignantly, “You’ve been a bucket of pent-up frustration all day!! No one can get near ye’ let alone talk to ye’!! And to make matters worse, none of us are even the least bit prepared to deal with ye’ because we haven’t the slightest clue what the problem even is!”

“Has it occurred to ye’ that _maybe_... jus’ maybe I don’t wish to be dealt with?” John’s voice was calm now but his voice had taken on a warning growl.

“Can’t you just talk to us, John?” Paul pleaded.

“Sure, love! Mind. Yer. Fuckin’. Business,” Lennon responded, “How’s that fer some choice words?” His voice casual on the surface, blatantly depicted something entirely different underneath, “Anything else?”

Paul was scowling now. “Yeah. Eppy’s ready for our next venue, though I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you for. You can stay behind for all I bloody well care.” And with those very words, McCartney turned away and stalked off. What he didn’t let on was that he’d regretted his words the minute they’d slipped out. It had been his anger talking. Not him. It was just, John had this uncanny ability to get him so frustrated. It was a favorite pastime of the rhythm guitarist, it seemed. It always had been. But lately, he’d been overboard with his antics. And for the first time for what seemed like ever, Paul had no idea how to deal with him. It was foreign, really, to know that something was clearly bothering his best mate and he’d rather shut him out rather than talk to him. For Paul, that was as good as a slap to the face or a punch to the gut. His feelings were hurt. So what else could he do but return the hurt to its sender?

 


	9. Mind Games

Pressed up against the window of the Beatles’ car furthest from his mates, John visibly fumed.

Talk to Paul. What bollocks. It wasn’t like he was going through anything that the proclaimed ‘cute Beatle’ was actually capable of understanding. Sure the bassist had been a bit on the chubby side growing up but those years were long gone having since been replaced by layers of self-confidence and all the fan adoration to go along with it. McCartney had everything. He had the face, he had the voice, he had the respect... Most importantly he had the control. No one would dare think to belittle him with such an insensitive word as fat... or anything of the like. Not Paul. Not sweet innocent James Paul McCartney. Next to him, John felt about as graceful as a new-born giraffe. Next to him, he felt about as appealing as a full-grown hippopotamus. He didn’t even feel like he was in control of his own band anymore, the title having been passed off to Paul without so many words stating so. It didn’t matter whether or not anyone actually stated the fact. It just was. Everyone knew it. He could just see it. He could see it in the permanent pride McCartney wore like a mask. He could see it in the face of Brian whenever he’d openly discuss the talents of the band’s precious bassist. Soon, there wouldn’t be a place for a John Lennon, regardless of whether or not he invented the Beatles. They’d faze him out... and replace him with someone better than him in every aspect. Right now, it seemed as though _every_ and _any_ living thing could fit that criteria. He was missing that unique quality he once had. Assuming he once had it to begin with. It was possible that it had all been in his head. It was possible that _this_ current frame of mind was all in his head, as well. If so, then what was happening to him?

In an air of uncontainable frustration, Lennon dropped his head in hands and half-groaned, half-growled forth the turbulent troubles confined to his mind. This was it. He’d truly gone mad. The scenery outside of the moving car consequently reduced itself to a hazy blur as though doing everything in its power to prove the statement true. He’d gone so far off the deep end; he could hardly make sense of the outside world anymore.

The unanticipated touch to his shoulder sent a foreign, indescribable feeling of dread down his spine; something like a shaky, tingly chill. Impulsively, the rhythm guitarist shook the unwanted hand away before swinging his eyes to the intruder, his jaded gaze falling on the worried face of the drummer seated next to him.

“What happened to your hand?” he inquired slowly, cautiously, his voice practically a whisper.

“What?”

“Your _hand_.”

Oh. That. John subsequently extended his hand in front of his face and flexed it. The bruised and bloodied knuckles had already begun to scab over, making the action vaguely uncomfortable. Weirdly enough, he’d forgotten all about it. It didn’t even hurt anymore, really. “Nothing to concern yerself with, Ring,” he vacantly responded without looking at him.

“But... but...” Ringo couldn’t seem to hide his utter confusion of his ongoing concern especially concerning his mate’s newly acquired subdued persona , “Are... are you sure yer all right, John?” he blurted out.

John vacantly perceived him, his face lacking emotion. “What makes y’think I’m not?” he asked; his voice presenting itself with just as much numbness as stemmed from his face.

“Yer not yerself.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his dark gaze surveying the drummer with all the blatant irritation in the world. “Yeah? And how should ye’ know what qualifies as the self of John Lennon, eh?!”

“I...” Ringo paused momentarily, attempting to gather the words necessary to address such a curveball of a question, “Well, I’ve dealt with ye’ long enough, Lennon. I think I’ve gathered the proper wit to know me way around ye’ by now.”

“Well... that makes one of us...” John sighed, his initial anger subsiding as quickly as it had come on, “Congratulations, Ritchie! I’d give yer a trophy but I’m all out. Why don’t ye’ try, McCartney? He’s earned several jus’ by being cute, y’know.”

Having been seated directly on the other side of Ringo, Paul was unable to avoid the bombardment of such words to his open ears. “Lennon, I bloody swear—” the bassist sharply interjected. Quickly, he bit down on his tongue to avoid the remaining stream of hurtful words that threatened to spill forth like a waterfall.

“And here’s the beauty queen now,” Lennon remarked matter-of-factly, his gaze depicting faux nonchalance as it swung briefly to Paul, “Go ‘ead, Ritch. Ask ‘im.”

“Go t’hell, Lennon!” McCartney growled.

John smirked scornfully, “I’m already there, love.”

“ _Enough_!!!” Ringo intervened, his voice a plaintive wail of cross irritation, “If yer wish t’fight like bloody three-year-olds, do it when I’m not bloody stuck in between the two of ye’!!!”

Paul blanched and John moodily looked away.

To Ringo’s immediate surprise, much-craved silence prevailed, the outcome unexpected. Blimey! Such a thing _never_ happened especially when dealing with the likes of the two most dominant personalities of the band. Clearly, he’d have to use his powers for good!

The drummer dared a brief glance beyond Paul to see how George was faring through the latest escalation of things. Cleverly, the lead guitarist remained frozen, his gaze fixated out the window with a feigned lack of awareness. He might as well have been part of the outside scenery in passing, he was so detached. _Lucky_ , the drummer couldn’t help enviously thinking. Ignorance could be bloody bliss. If only he, himself, could be so lucky half the time. Fortunately, both Lennon and McCartney seemed to have dropped their row for the time-being. Slowly for fear of inadvertently instigating something with his gaze alone and disturbing, as a result, the newly fallen quietude, Ringo returned his gaze to the front of the car. Only then did he allow every tense muscle in his body to relax. Whatever was wrong with John, he hoped someone would figure it out sooner rather than later. Somehow, he didn’t have a good feeling about things to come.

At some unwanted point in time, he must’ve drifted off because his next point of awareness found him subject to a brusque but gentle jostling emerging from the hands of Mal. At last, Ringo came to, his tired gaze meeting the bemused eyes of their road manager. “What’s the matter?” he blurted out, his voice clogged with sleep.

“Time to get out. We’ve arrived,” Mal responded, traces of bemusement not leaving his face.

At that point, Ringo managed to glance about him, noticing at last that Brian along with both Paul and George had already vacated the car. Next to him, Lennon was making a half-arsed effort at doing the same.

“Oh...” Ringo mumbled, everything beginning to make sense at once as reality bombarded him with all the force of a freight train. “Right. The interview.”

Mal glanced from him to John and back. “Hardly a half hour ride to the premises and the two of you were nearly dead to the world!”

“Sleeping is a crime now, is it?” John sneered in his direction, an eyebrow raised in a cynical manner.

Mal turned to him, slightly taken aback by the iciness of his words. “Well, no, John... not at all! I’m just a bit surprised is all. Especially with how hard it was to wake you boys.”

John wasted no time displaying a rapidly increasing lack of interest in the roadie’s unnecessary concerns, “It’s the perfect escape, sleep. Ringo could sleep through the onset of the perfect storm, y’know.”

“Well, yes... but you, John... you’re supposed to be the light sleeper as it was,” He shifted his gaze from John to Ringo and back, “You boys _are_ feeling well, aren’t you?”

“Of course!” Ringo automatically responded, “We’re just hungry if anything. Tired because of it.”

“Speak fer yerself, drummer,” John mumbled, his demeanor still portraying an obvious lack of interest.

Mal heaved a sigh of frustration, his gaze once again, landing skeptically on the rhythm guitarist, “ _Regardless_ , we’ve no time to waste—”

“Story of me life,” John haughtily interrupted, “Jus’ lay the blame already so that the rest of us can get on with our mediocre lives.”

Mal shook his head. “I have no such intentions of pointing any fingers. I’m just a bit concerned, really. In fact,” he paused concentrating his gaze on Lennon, “John, I—”

“Mal,” Ringo tentatively cut in, beginning to suspect that he knew the true purpose behind the roadie’s intervention. He may not have finished schooling but he wasn’t stupid... nor was he blind.

“Yes, Ritch?”

“Is this conversation actually meant to involve me? I mean... yer not exactly looking to scold us fer simply falling asleep are ye’?”

After a bit of thought, Mal shook his head, “No. I’m not actually.” He paused thoughtfully. Truth be told, Ringo had nothing to do with anything he was about to say. He just happened to be left there due to his sluggish awakening. Had he woken up in a more timely fashion, he’d have been sent into the building just as the others were. “Sit tight a moment,” the manager presently commanded. With that, he turned around to face the bodyguard patiently perched behind him on the sidewalk, waiting to complete his job of escorting the remaining half of the Beatles inside. After a few quick words, he turned back to Ringo. “You will be escorted in right this moment.”

Ringo nodded gratefully and made pronounced efforts to escape the car. As soon as he was out of earshot, Mal turned back to face John who immediate made a show of rolling his eyes under the manager’s steady gaze.

“Look,” the rhythm guitarist went on to declare, “I’m really not in the mood fer a psychological evaluation least of all from you so—”

“Brian believes he’s got a right for worry,” Mal interrupted, paying the boy no mind, “and well actually, he’s asked for me to address the situation.”

“Brilliant,” John snapped, his words laden with sarcasm, “Nancy-boy cries to ye’ and then leaves ye’ t’do his dirty work.”

Mal sighed, “Actually, John, that’s not entirely true. He—” He faltered suddenly realizing he was beginning to stray away from the topic. He knew from too many years of experience that such an occurrence was exactly what was meant to happen as a result of a skillfully honed diversion craftily created by none other than John Lennon. Shaking his head and heaving a flustered sigh, he gave his speech another go. “ _He_ , as well as everyone else, is under the impression that something is bothering you.”

John remained unfazed. “ _Well_ , it _seems_ to me that _he_ , as well as _everyone else_ , needs to tend to their own problems, don’t y’think?” came his contemptuous response.

“Tell me, Lennon. Are you going to retaliate to _everything_ I say?” Mal questioned, his unconcealed annoyance depicting his resolute disapproval of such behavior.

John casually leaned back in his seat, a derisive smirk planted on his face. “That depends, _Mal_ ,” he retorted, “Let’s see how far yer willing t’go with this bloody nonsense.”

“So you refuse to take this seriously, then.”

“I _am_ serious.” John defiantly affirmed, subsequently staring the older man down, his eyes dark and filled with challenge.

Mal took a reactive step back. “You could’ve fooled me!”

“Are we done?” John dully asked, pronounced boredom underlining his most recent demand.

“Well it’s clear that you don’t wish to let anyone into your world, John,” Mal resignedly concluded, “But I’ll tell you one thing.” He leaned in once more for effect, his eyes narrowing with austerity. “This behavior, whatever maybe the cause of it, ends _here_ ,” he sternly reprimanded, “Got it?”

“So were done,” John muttered, blatantly overlooking the roadie’s warnings. “Great.” He began extracting himself from the car, “Let’s get the rest of this fucking day over with then.”

And Mal couldn’t help but incredulously stare at the guitarist as he went about his endeavors, a feeling of incompleteness gripping him. Somehow, he’d been unable to get anywhere near the subject matter even as he’d tried to approach it head on. As per usual, Lennon had managed to remain practically untouched what with all those mind games of his. The boy was an enigma. A puzzle. A bloody mystery. And for the time being, it seemed that not even Sherlock Holmes had what it took to get to the core of his mind.

* * *

 

“Bloody hell, _where_ are they?” Brian mentally questioned of both John and Mal as he anxiously paced back and forth in front of the wide doorway leading to the setting of the Beatles’ interview. The event should’ve started five minutes ago. Not only was the interviewer getting impatient, but even Paul had gone forth to state that they start without John. Brian wasn’t blind to the true reasoning behind McCartney’s suggestion either. He knew that the lads weren’t quite seeing eye to eye in even the slightest. Rather than feed into their rather childish behavior by allowing Paul his ridiculous request and angering John in the long run, he decisively held his ground.

“John should be with us shortly,” he found himself announcing over and over again, more so for the sake of himself as well as the interviewer. She, a longhaired, curly blonde, couldn’t resist the mere act of glancing to her watch indicating her growing intolerance to the situation.

Brian literally wanted to sink into the carpeted floor with each time she completed such an act. The Beatles were dead set on losing all their credibility at this point. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. This wasn’t the way this event was supposed to pan out. Presently heaving a sigh of concealed frustration, the manager shot a look to the ceiling self-pity claiming him. Couldn’t _one_ thing... just _one_ thing turn out as it should? Was there no justice in this world? He knew his thoughts were a bit on the melodramatic side, but somehow he couldn’t seem to help it nor did he actually care enough to try. This day was utter hell as far as he could see. For the sake of his sanity, he needed just one thing to go smoothly. In fact, with the way things had been thus far, he desperately needed for the _entire_ _remainder_ of the day to go smoothly. Would that be so much to ask? Probably.

The sound of approaching footsteps stymied any leftover thoughts and Brian looked up with hope, his eyes landing on not just Mal but John as well. And in a fleeting instant, hope became relief before irritation took over altogether. “Where have you been, John?” he sharply insisted. Just as John opened his mouth, a snide response about to tumble out, Brian cut him off, “Never mind. Just get in there and seat yourself beside Ringo!”

As John entered the large carpeted room complete with an avocado green couch on which his mates sat, he was unsurprised to find that the only sources of eye contact stemmed from the aforementioned drummer. Not even the interviewer could be bothered to look up from her notes as he finally took his reserved seat. George stared at the floor. Paul picked at his nails. Deep inside, John felt heavy remorse as he was more than aware that he’d brought all of it upon himself. He’d been the instigator. The git. The arse. In the wake of that, he’d be stupid to expect some kind of royal welcome.

“You must be John Lennon,” the interviewer spoke without looking up from her notes.

“The one and only. And you are?”

“Amy Rosewood.” She looked up briefly right then but her bout of eye-contact was short-lived. “Wonderful of you to make it! Let’s begin.”

“Yes, let’s!” Paul announced, suddenly jumping in with his usual enthusiasm. He glanced finally to John managing to catch his evasive gaze right before it slipped away to the safety of the floor. The disengaged visual eye-contact somehow cut deeper than the bassist actually imagined it would and he found himself swimming in a resulting world of hurt. He recovered only as the interviewer spoke.

“I’d like to begin by addressing the most recent subject matter the media has to offer as of today.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Ringo asked.

“John.”

Lennon recoiled slightly before cautiously raising his eyes to regard the woman who called herself Amy. “What about John?” he asked slowly, warily.

“You’ve been referred to most recently as the fat Beatle. How does that make you feel?”

Caught off guard by the woman’s failure to beat around the bush, John found himself in a rare predicament. He was actually dumbfounded. While he admired anyone who knew how to navigate life with a straightforward approach, he somehow wasn’t so fond of this woman’s mannerisms when dealing with such a sensitive subject as one’s inadvertent weight gain. It was like callously ripping the bandage off a still fresh wound. “Well, how would _you_ feel?” he threw back.

His three band mates recoiled in all out astonishment, visibly taken aback by the unexpected amount of raw emotion that accompanied his demand. Even the interviewer was momentarily rendered speechless.

“I might be famous but I’m still human, y’know,” the rhythm guitarist went on in all absence of response, “Lucky for you, yer dealing with the likes of John Lennon and let me tell y’something, darling. He couldn’t care less about the shortsighted, superficial bollocks the bloody press chooses to spawn up nowadays. It’s bloody shite. All of it. I bet ye’, none of ‘em could tell their bloody arses from their fucking elbows had they had to do it!”

More wide eyes surrounded him. Only George snickered without restraint, openly as he often did, admiring his mate’s brutal honesty.

But Brian was far from amused. Fearing the worst, he entered the scene with all the purpose he was capable of exhibiting. “That’s enough, Lennon!” he hissed, while struggling to maintain his air of characteristic refinement, “That’s _enough_!”

John rolled his eyes, unperturbed by the chastisement. “Well, it’s the truth, ain’t it, Brian?”

“Whether it is or isn’t, I don’t wish to hear another word about it!” Eppy snapped in response.

John sat back in his seat. “Typical.”

Brian turned to the interviewer before dismissing himself from the center of attention, “Change the subject,” he ordered her.

Amy responded with a shrug. “All right, then!” She turned automatically to George, “George, I hear you’re the big eater of the group. How is it that you manage to stay so thin? I’m sure many fans would love to know your secret!”

Paul frowned in immediate distaste. How could this woman go from talking about John’s weight gain to George’s thinness? It was almost as though she was trying to build contrast but in a negative way.

George shrugged unsure of how to tackle such a question, “Uh... I just do... I can’t imagine there’s a real science to it... I’m just one of those people with a fast metabolism I guess.”

Paul glanced to John wondering if he’d caught on to the interviewer’s game. Oddly enough, the rhythm guitarist didn’t seem to have taken notice; another red flag in Paul’s mind. John was beyond smart and beyond perceptive. Chances were he was shielding himself, emotions and all, behind one of those infamous, impenetrable Lennon facades. How much of his emotion was he keeping in check? What was he hiding? And what of the ‘fat Beatle’ comment? Judging by his initial reaction when asked about it, it seemed he’d known all along. Was it the source behind his moodiness? If so, why hadn’t he chosen to let on to him, his best mate of all people? It was clear, judging by that rant alone, that the rhythm guitarist needed an outlet. Why hadn’t he come to him?

A strange alien sound almost guttural in nature proceeded to emerge from somewhere in the room at that very instant.

“Well!” Amy sat back in astonishment, “It sounds like someone’s hungry!”

“Probably George,” Ringo affirmed with a laugh.

“George!” Brian automatically followed up, scolding the lead guitarist in a manner that suggested he should’ve been in better control of the inner workings of his digestive tract.

George’s eyes widened defensively, “That wasn’t me!” he exclaimed. “Not _this_ time!”

“Sure it wasn’t,” Ringo chuckled.

Paul didn’t fail to notice as everyone else did, John’s actions as one of his hands, alarming shaky, moved discreetly to his abdomen following the intestinal growl. He was so pale today. Really, he looked quite sick. The effects of not eating, Paul mentally suspected with ample worry. He’d kill John if he got to the bottom of whatever it was he was trying to pull, assuming he was trying to pull anything at all. Something had the bass player on edge and it wasn’t just Lennon’s attitude. The unexplained feeling he’d developed earlier on in the day, for some reason was _still_ with him. What it contained entirely and what was driving it, he still couldn’t place. And for the moment, nothing in the world was more maddening.

 


	10. Just Like Starting Over

Late afternoon finally found the Beatles and accompanying entourage settled into a prominent pub complete with the cozy, laidback atmosphere they’d been desperately craving for hours on end. Tired, hungry, and a bit fed up with all that they’d been through thus far; little time was wasted dawdling, and orders, owing to the attentiveness of the wait-staff, were submitted and fetched in a rare but automatic fashion to meet each their heart’s, more so, their stomach’s desires. And in no time, they were eating. Despite George being on the brink of a food driven orgasm, the sequence of events had all but pleased John. As far as he was concerned, the special treatment they’d received was nothing more than a mere product of their fame. Had they been any other random, average group off the street, they never would’ve found themselves on the receiving end of such speedy service. In fact there was a good chance, they’d have yet to order, let alone be stuffing their faces. It was _sickening_ and yet _another_ disconcerting side to fame. The rhythm guitarist was beginning to downright loathe everything his celebrity status had been bringing to him lately. Fame was seemingly the only true scenario where one could receive star treatment on one half of a spectrum and zero privacy and respect on another half. Bloody bipolar, his life had become... and he had but one word to describe it. Fucking _overrated_. Plain and simple. A simple word to describe a hellish, overly complex life. Brian on the other hand, when graced with everything most recently presented to them by the ‘eager to please’ restaurant, had reacted with nothing more than pure contentment. How classic. How characteristic of a prim and proper manager who wanted nothing more than the best for his boys. Poor oblivious taskmaster. How would he dare take it if the so-called ‘best’ he was always promoting was actually the _worst_ in disguise?

“Something wrong with your food, John?” Brian presently asked, his crisp, clear voice everything enough to penetrate the overpowering, pessimistic thoughts swarming about him.

“Why do ye’ ask?” the guitarist asked; blinking finally. He’d been staring so hard at the center of the table; it had ceased to exist in his line of vision. Glancing down at his plate, it suddenly dawned on him that it had remained untouched since he’d received his order nearly ten minutes ago. His overloaded mind had done so good a job at distracting him from his food; he’d even managed to momentarily forget about his latest troubles, his brain having sought out other impending matters equally depressing. Strangely enough he was actually starving himself as a result without truly meaning to. Funny thing, stress...

“Well, you’ve hardly touched it!”

For the millionth time that day, John was put on the spot. And for the millionth time that day, he didn’t quite know how to take it. He dwelled a moment in his own silence before tossing his head back with all the indignation he was currently capable of. “What, am I not eating fast enough fer ye’?” he derisively demanded.

“ _Actually_ , yer not eating at all!” Paul piped up softly albeit callously.

John shot him a glare. Having returned his attention to his food, the bassist pretended not to notice.

“Aren’t y’hungry?” George pitched in.

Before John could even respond, the lead guitarist took it upon himself to reach past his own plate to grab an untouched scone from his mate’s.

Lennon hastily shoved the intruder’s hand away. “Mind yer own soddin’ plate, y’git!” he snapped.

The lead guitarist retreated but held his ground. “Not if yer only set on lettin’ it go t’waste!” he responded.

To prove some unknown point for unknown, potentially malicious reasons, John took the very scone George had been seeking out and took a bite out of it just to spite him. In doing so, he was nearly the recipient of his own poorly sought out spite as his attempt to swallow said scone had him in a near gagging fit. As he began coughing and choking, his water was shoved at him courtesy of Brian who quickly resorted to reprimanding him for not being more careful with his ‘childish’ antics. It took several swallows of water for John to find his tongue once more. “Really, ‘m’fine, Brian,” he muttered, voice dripping with ample sarcasm, “Thanks fer asking.”

“You asked fer it,” George innocently added, gracing him with a smug look.

“Piss off.” John grumbled; agitated with the fact that even his own actions were starting to backfire on him. Really it was as though the entire world was against him. He set the partially eaten scone down on his plate before it could do him any more damage. What had happened had been no accident. His stomach, put off by the mere act of eating, had made its turbulent feelings known. Maybe reasons were psychosomatic, but with such a mindset, he was set to presume that he probably wouldn’t have been able to eat much even if he wanted to. He’d most likely have to settle for water... and small insignificant scraps. A scone really hadn’t been his best choice in picking, anyroad. The things were chockfull of everything destined to fatten one up. How much of a bad thing was too much? Would he have to revert to Gigi’s plan already? The French bird’s words floated into his mind right then. _‘I purge... It is why I am still able to enjoy what I love. It is safer because I’m not depriving myself of what I need to survive.’_

John mentally shrugged. Well as that famous French saying went; ‘ _joie de vivre!’_ Absently, he took up the scone and began nibbling at it once more. If he were to properly portray the façade of normalcy, he’d better capitalize on what it meant to appear normal. This time, possibly due to the will of thought, the scone went down with ease. His stomach soon forgot its grudge against all things edible and gurgled with piqued interest; food being what it had needed all along. He had to limit his intake still. ‘Joie de vivre’ or not, it was no excuse to go overboard.

“Can I get you guys anything?”

Several pairs of eyes glanced up to the fair-haired pub waitress seeking out each their requests.

“I’ll take another sparkling water, please,” Eppy kindly requested.

The waitress eagerly nodded with a pleasant smile, “Anything else?” she asked.

“More bacon butties please!” George requested next through a mouthful of scone, carefully selected this time from his own plate. Kind and soft-spoken, this ‘saintly’ woman of a waitress was a true goddess in his eyes as not only was she heavenly in appearance but the supplier of the food he’d been longing for all day. Try as he might, he just couldn’t seem to stop eating.

The waitress smiled at him; her easy gesture portraying amusement this time as she took in youngest Beatles’ gusto. “Sure thing! Anything else?”

“Another coke,” Paul stated, smiling up at her.

“Water,” said John. “None of that sparkling stuff. Just regular water.”

“Nothing fer me, thanks,” Ringo politely told her. “I’m right ready to burst!”

“You’ve had _half_ a bacon butty if even that!” George acknowledged incredulously, turning to Ringo with disbelief, “How can y’be full from that?”

“Well, look at ‘is size fer starters!” Paul commented unsupportively, an eyebrow arched.

Ringo waved the bassist off, “Me size ‘as nothing to do with anything, Macca!” he affirmed in a constructed attempt to defend himself, “And fer yer bloody information, George, I’d more than half!”

“Yeah? How many then?”

“Two!” Ringo proudly informed his mates as though he was a mere tot who’d just pleased his mum by finishing off his vegetables, “And at least I’m not ordering more bacon butties when I’ve a plate full of ‘em! You’ll eat this place outta business if ye’ keep it up, George!”

“Then so be it!” George stated before jamming another bacon butty into his mouth and grinning through it.

The waitress chuckled as she moved away to fulfill everyone’s latest requests. Ringo could only imagine what she was thinking.

“Is everyone enjoying their meals?” Eppy took the time to ask.

There was a chorus of yeses, yeahs, and sures.

“John?” Eppy glanced specifically to the rhythm guitarist noticing that he was the only one who hadn’t bothered to express his opinion. “Are you satisfied? You’ve hardly touched the bacon butties either. They’re for everyone, you know.”

“I wasn’t impressed with their taste, really,” John flippantly responded without missing a beat, “They’re much better back home.”

“Well, you’ve never complained before,” Eppy prodded, his comment bringing to the guitarist’ diminished attention that they’d eaten at the very pub they currently resided in several times before on tours past.

“Maybe y’weren’t listening...” was John’s absent remark.

“What did you end up eating if not the butties?” Mal pressed, “Certainly you’ve eaten more than that scone!”

“Two slices actually!” John affirmed, finding he sounded a lot like Ringo at the moment. Only difference was, his verification lacked a bit of truth...

“All this time of not eating and all you had was two helpings of scone?” Brian demanded, his immediate displeasure coming into the light.

John shrugged, failing to see the cause for such a reaction, “I’ll eat more later. I’ll be much hungrier then, I imagine.”

“ _Not_ hungry...” George scoffed, blatantly put off by the whole idea of it all, “Y’better keep away from me if yer coming down with something.”

Paying George no mind, John heaved a sigh and rose from his seat.

“Where are ye’ ‘eading off to?” George asked in a fit of surprise. “I don’t mean fer ye’ to leave entirely!”

“I gotta shake me snake. What’s it to ye’?” John snapped back at him.

“Honestly, John,” Eppy muttered, blanching noticeably out of pure embarrassment, “You’re in a restaurant! Control that tongue of yours, would you?”

George and Ringo snickered. “That’ll be the day,” Ringo piped up, “Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

But John was already gone.

Entering the vacant bathroom, the anxious rhythm guitarist paced around for a bit, pausing at the sink and daring to look himself in the eye. He hadn’t had to pee. Not really. He’d had other intentions as he’d left the dining table. But what were they really? What was he truly about to do? His reflection stared back, perceptibly tired and even a bit pale. A daring glint, the only sign of life from within the depths of his wearied eyes gave it all away. He was about to... He was about to... He couldn’t even bring himself to merely _think_ the rest of the unveiled realization, it was that taboo. Or was it? What if it were the actual answer to all his pitiful wants and needs? What if...? He trailed off, forcibly ripping his eyes away from his gruesome reflection. The more time he wasted questioning his unformulated antics, the... the more time he wasted... John frowned, disgusted by the recent nonsense spun up by his failing brain. What was happening to his mentality these days? Great. More questions. More time wasted.

The musician took a step into the stall and dropped his gaze to the toilet bowl. Its mouth seemed to grow smaller by the second as though indicating that time was not of the essence. He either hurry up and do what he came to do or lose his nerve altogether. Impulsively, he latched the stall door behind him and knelt down before the toilet. His stomach, already sick with a lack of food intake, did the rest and within seconds he was forcing up everything he’d eaten that day... and then some. The contractions became almost automatic after a while and he had a hard time slowing them even as nothing but traces of bile emerged from his mouth.

After a long torturous while, John collapsed back against the stall wall, his eyes stinging with involuntary tears and actual sweat. Reaching blindly for a piece of toilet paper, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose before discarding it all in the toilet and flushing it away with all his stomach contents. All the while, he wondered how Gigi could do something like he’d just done just for the sake of doing it. It felt awful. His throat burned, his head throbbed something fierce, and his stomach felt sickeningly hollow. Had he been a bit more of a nancy-boy, he might’ve actually cried from all the discomfort.

Another few minutes went by before Lennon finally forced himself to his feet. Alarmingly dizzy, he gripped the stall walls before feeling steady enough to proceed with his stall exit. Making his way to the sink, he hurriedly rinsed his mouth out with fresh water before daring to take in his reflection once more. Bloody hell... if he thought he’d looked bad before, he looked even worse now. His bangs were actually wet with sweat, their color significantly darker as a result. The contrast against his colorless face was appalling, not to mention the pronounced bags beneath his still watery, bloodshot eyes. At this point, he hardly resembled a human being let alone his father. Acting upon impulse once more, he bent over the sink splashing warm water on his face in hopes of giving it a bit more color. Then he made a show of drying his hair using wads and wads of paper towels. Another glance in the mirror proved to be a poor choice of action, as he was instantly displeased to find that he hardly passed his own test. At least his hair was drier. Without missing another beat, the guitarist tugged open the bathroom door and reluctantly, he made his way back to the others. He knew they’d be wondering about him by now if they weren’t already.

Just as expected, everyone looked up as he fell, more like collapsed, into his seat.

“Where’ve y’been, Lennon?” Ringo was the first to ask, “I was beginning to think y’fell in!”

“I...” Lennon trailed off, grimacing inwardly at the hoarse surfacing of his voice. Taking a sip of the water he’d been presented with who knew how long ago, he cleared his throat before continuing the beginning of a constructed charade. “I ‘ad something in me eye. Took some time to get it out.”

“Is that why yer eyes are so red? Wait why are they _both_ red?” George questioned, “Y’weren’t smoking without me were ye’?”

“Paper towels...” John skillfully thought up. “As I was digging around in one eye, they both started watering. Must be allergic or something...”

George shrugged, accepting the answer as did the others. Only Paul remained secretly skeptical, though he refused to address his mate altogether as they were still in the throes of some irrational, absurd row.

Blind to Paul’s thoughts, John found himself sighing in relief as all eyes lifted off of him. But boy was he knackered. He wanted to go home. He needed to sleep. Most importantly, he needed to eat— _No_... No he didn’t. Not if it would lead to him having to throw up again. But what if he got hungry again? What was he to do then? Perhaps that French bird was right. Perhaps this was the only way. Bloody hell, what was he choosing to get himself into? He couldn’t even begin to fathom it. His head aching still, he temporarily laid it down into the crook of an inviting arm he’d had resting on the table. His eyes actually burned. It felt good to close them.

“John...” the disembodied voice came from far away at first.

“John!” now it was right in his ear. A detached hand gripped him right then and he actually jolted to as though he’d been in a separate realm of consciousness prior. “Huh?” he questioned, confusion gripping him as he finally allowed himself to lift his head, blinking blearily into the restaurant lighting.

George was peering at him as if he was nothing more than an alien straight from Jupiter. “Were ye’ _sleeping_?” he asked with ample shock.

John frowned. “What? _No_!” His own words sent a sharp stab of pain through his skull and he quickly winced. His head was killing him.

“Well y’look like shite,” the lead guitarist honestly professed, “Y’better not bother sitting next t’me in the car.”

John groaned and sat up, raking his fingers through his hair. “I’m fine, George... No need t’wet yerself... I’m _not_ falling ill.”

“He probably just needs to eat is all,” McCartney muttered, not looking up from the table as he spoke.

“Yes.” Brian quickly agreed, “Yes. I’m sure that’s it. We’ll return to the hotel, he’ll eat a decent meal, and everything will be fine.” He couldn’t bear the thought of any member of his band falling ill on tour of all times. Paul’s suggestion seemed a much easier fix void of all setbacks. “Let’s wrap this up then,” the manager added, pulling out his wallet with an air of finality, “We’ve a busy week ahead of us and I’d like for us all to settle in for the remainder of the day so that things can proceed with utmost efficiency.”

 


	11. Isolation

“Room service!!” a much too cheerful George sang out as John, bleary-eyed, pajama-clad, and still very much asleep trudged into the kitchen. As the rhythm guitarist joined the younger boy at the large rectangular-shaped table located at the center of the dining room, his barely present awareness was suddenly drawn to an extravagant, overbearing feast that had seemed to manifest before his very eyes.

“Oy, what’s this?” he asked, scrubbing at both his eyes to ensure that he was in fact seeing what he was seeing.

“Mal ordered room service!” George grinned up at him, his eyes gleaming like a child’s on Christmas morning, “He figured that since it’s to be our last day here, it would be our little treat.”

“He did, did ‘e?” John found himself absently mumbling by way of response. The rhythm guitarist frowned as he continued to take in the mounds and mounds of food that filled the tabletop. The lacy cloth that spanned its smooth surface was hardly visible beneath the revolting mess. No wonder Harrison was so happy. “There’s enough ‘ere to feed all of Europe and then some!” he pointed out, refusing to partake in his mate’s gratitude.

“Isn’t it gear?” George inquired animatedly, “Jus’ what a bloke like me shall require first thing in the morning. ‘M’not even sure where t’begin!”

“With yer mouth, I should hope,” John quipped, his tone lacking the vigor it should’ve had.

“Well yes,” the fellow guitarist replied, a hint of irritation momentarily dimming his excitement, “But should I start with the bacon butties first and move on next to the bread pudding? Or should I start with some ham and then follow with some apple...”

John shook his head distractedly, his incredulity only growing as his attentiveness towards George gradually diminished. What was it that had every human being on the planet solely convinced that food was a suitable form of reward? Bloody hell, it was no wonder they weren’t all fat by this point of time. All human beings should be fat slobs... and then there wouldn’t be room for hateful labels... in _that_ sense anyway.

In the background, George droned on, completely oblivious to his mate’s internal battle with himself. John tuned in temporarily to make sure he wasn’t missing anything important. When he learned that he wasn’t, his attention gravitated once more to the unbearably large selection of food in front of him. A large part of him longed to wish it all away. There was so much food at once, it was utterly sickening. It was just too much to take in let alone consume. Yet he wanted it. Every single ounce of it. He wanted nothing more than to indulge as George so freely did. He wanted to binge. He wanted to eat until he bloody well exploded, he was so hungry. However, giving in wasn’t an option. He simply couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_.

His stomach growled plaintively in contrast to his inner vow, blatantly announcing its dissatisfaction with his latest decision of foolish caliber. Figures he’d have a stomach that proved just as outspoken and commanding as he himself was. _‘What are y’doing, y’bloody sod?’_ he could almost hear it nagging him, _‘Yer blood hungry so eat! What are y’waiting for? Eat! EAT!!’_ It wasn’t used to the kind of treatment he’d settled on giving it these past two days. It was hungry. _He_ was hungry. Starving, really. And his stomach wasn’t about to let him forget it. When was the last time he’d a true bite to eat anyway? Yesterday at that restaurant was it? And then he’d proceeded— Lennon faltered momentarily at the surfacing memory— He’d proceeded to do the unthinkable. He’d forced himself to rid himself of all traces of the enemy. He’d— Christ, even now he _still_ had a hard time bringing himself to come out with the exact term for such a wrongdoing; for something so taboo... Try as he might, he just couldn’t. That’s how wrong it was. How wrong he _knew_ it was.

“John? Are ye’ even listening to me?”

John blinked as George’s voice managed to permeate the heavy disarray that clouded his brain. “What?” he questioned, his blank gaze portraying an all out lack of comprehension.

George sighed and impatiently rolled his eyes, “Blimey Lennon, warn me next time if yer jus’ gonna bloody tune out when I’m talking to ye’! Bloody ‘ell, I could’ve been on the very edge of dying and y’wouldn’t ‘ave even taken notice!!”

John opened his mouth in attempt to fire off some form of witty response, only to find that for once in the sake of all things rare, he couldn’t come up with even the simplest string of words. His mind had been doing that lately; abandoning him completely at the least convenient of times. Instead he found himself reduced to the primitive act of staring, watching with an ample mix of intent and disgust as the lead guitarist, unable to hold himself back any longer, went on to help himself to the feast; piling a plate ridiculously high with everything within reach of his fingertips. And John felt sickened with the surfacing realization that not even the biggest amount of even the most unhealthiest of it all would even begin to widen the frame of the Beatles’ youngest in the slightest. It was unfair... So, so unfair. After all, he could _‘eat so much yet stay so thin...’_ That beastly prat of an interviewer had said so herself...

“Aren’t y’gonna eat something, son?”

John jumped at the unexpected added presence of Ringo’s voice. The drummer, as he sometimes would, seemed to have materialized out of the blue. Yet John was unsurprised to find that his question was aimed at him. Certainly, it wasn’t the type of question one would direct to a healthy, fully-functioning George. “Uh... yeah... ‘m’working on it,” the rhythm guitarist responded slowly, trying to instill as much casualness into the sentence as he could readily muster, “What’s the hurry, anyway?”

“The fact that we’re due in Los Angeles in less than two hours,” Brian piped up from across the table, his stern voice indicating the fact that he was in no mood to deal with any setbacks.

Again, John blinked in surprise. _When had he gotten here? And..._ he paused taking the time to look around finally... The same went for Paul... and Mal... and... Blimey, seconds ago it had simply been only him and George. He entered his head for two seconds and suddenly the entire hotel had joined in on their breakfast. It was possible he may have to start questioning his own sanity for failing to take proper notice...

“Enough fannying around, John,” Epstein warned, “Eat.”

“I said ‘m’getting to it!” John snapped, his fleeting anger masking an irrational panic that had begun to creep over him. He reached up a shaky hand and grabbed a plate, the ceramic disk nearly slipping from his suddenly clammy fingertips in the process. It was strange, really. Strange how a mere action such as preparing to eat; an action that should’ve been so normal, could suddenly warrant such an overreaction from his department of nerves. Just plain unreal.

“Yer hand looks like it might fancy a bit of antiseptic,” Ringo murmured from beside him, glancing meaningfully to his slaughtered hand only visible to him from the angle he was seated at.

John relaxed only slightly. Maybe his nerves weren’t as visible as he’d thought or Ringo would be noticing that over something as minor as his stupid hand. Nonetheless, he pretended he didn’t hear him. If he dared to speak, he feared his apprehensions may find a way out through his mouth jumbling up his words in a quavering, fretful, uncharacteristic mess. How would he even begin to address such a mishap then?

As the guitarist subsequently proceeded to reach for various things across the table, intentionally seeking out the edibles that seemed the healthiest; he found himself frowning as the feelings of discomfort not only prevailed, but increased. He’d never eaten in such a way before, and he suddenly felt as though everyone was inwardly questioning his antics. It seemed as if all eyes were on him, projecting forth their disapproval of what he was doing. He felt like they knew. All of them. They knew that he knew he was fat and was trying desperately to correct the problem. And it embarrassed him beyond belief.

The actual act of eating had been no easier. Each tiny bite sat heavy in his belly like bricks crafted from the world’s toughest cement. And he felt worse and worse all the time in a manner suggesting that he was somehow betraying himself. He felt... strangely unworthy... like a failure... and all because he was doing what should’ve come natural to him to begin with... _eating_. Just how far did he wish to take this whole ordeal anyway? How much weight did he wish to shed? He’d never actually taken the time to think of it; to really analyze his feelings on the matter. At what point did a fat pig uncomfortable in his own skin begin to feel comfortable once more? Perhaps that was part of the mission. He’d simply have to wait and find out.

“Aren’t y’hungry?” George asked, cutting abruptly into his once more swarming thoughts, “Yer hardly eating!”

And of course as expected, such a comment brought with it all the attention in the world. Attention that just never seemed far enough away where Lennon was concerned. He just couldn’t escape it these days it seemed. “Not everyone’s as bloody ravenous as ye’ always seem t’be,” John retorted, locating his mate with a glare for opening his big mouth in the first place, “Can’t yer live up to the press’ standards fer once and keep quiet?!”

“ _You_ don’t even live up to those standards, Lennon,” Ringo chimed in, “They called ye’ fat and yer not—”

John bristled; the dreaded, verbalized 3-letter word coupled with the meager amounts he’d eaten, burning a hole within his stomach. It didn’t even matter what the drummer had been about to say... He’d said it. He’d brought it up for all to hear... _Fat_. It was one thing to be aware of one’s fatness. But when it was carried about in casual conversation like so, it just... it just... “I need the loo...” John mumbled, speaking up without warning.

Ringo looked stunned. “I jus’—”

“I’m _fine_!” John snapped, anger erupting once more without recognizable rhyme or reason, “I jus’ need to _pee_. That all right with you?”

Ringo’s mouth fell shut and he was suddenly unsure of how to even carry on the conversation. “Of course...” he relented, his voice full of uncertainty.

“Well jolly _good_ then.” And John stood and abandoned his audience, his mind continuing to swarm with all the negative thoughts in the world. His mates were even treating him differently... or so it seemed. They were right up there with the public... and the media. God, how he hated the media. As much as it hurt to liken his mates to such an unforgiving group, he just couldn’t seem to shake the fact that there was no way around it.

The self-isolated Beatle located the bathroom after what seemed to be an impossible, irrational amount of time and entered it, shutting it and locking it soundly behind him. His mind continued to reel, cranking out this and that.

How could it possibly be so unpleasant to be in one’s skin? The skin he was born in? How could he loathe everything that he stood for so much? It was an impossible, downright miserable experience being everything that he was... whatever that even was. Every which way he turned, whether he was in the public eye or merely in the presence of his band, he didn’t feel good enough. He felt reduced; diminished as a human being. Wrongly targeted. He was no longer comfortable in the public eye he’d been eager to expose himself to ever since he’d been old enough to dream up such a lifestyle. And he couldn’t help thinking that every ounce of that discomfort started from somewhere within him. He’d fallen out of love with himself. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if there actually existed a time in which he actually did love himself.

Truthfully, it was hard to find security in one’s self when every which way he turned, he’d felt as though someone was staring judgmentally. Hard. Ruthlessly. And to make matters worse, he was constantly parading around as a Beatle clone in a world crafted by a manager bent on ensuring that he and his band mates were all made to look identical. Brilliant. It was no wonder he stood out the most. No wonder his weight gain was so bloody obvious. Stick him in a photo next to the likes of McCartney and Harrison and watch the revelations soar. Things had never seemed so bad _before_ he’d inadvertently let himself go. Not really anyway. Not in such a way that proved his misery blatantly obvious. He couldn’t _possibly_ be happy in the body of a fat pig and everyone knew it. So they judged. Passed assumptions. Assigned labels. Discreetly, blatantly; it was all the same. The people, the media, the public, his mates; they were _all_ the same in antics, in mannerisms. They’d tilt their heads curiously and just sort of gaze in his direction through what they thought to be a subtle manner, though in truth, there was nothing subtle about it. And then when they were under the conviction that he wasn’t the least bit tuned in, they’d speak amongst themselves. They’d laugh. They’d grin. They’d point. _‘It’s true,’_ he could almost hear from each their lips, _‘He’s really let himself go!’_ Hell, they were probably doing it right at that very moment. All of them. And why shouldn’t they? He wasn’t in their presence. Delusional, was he? He didn’t think so. _‘Let himself go?’_ the rhythm guitarist miserably thought as the imaginary conversation played and replayed over and over again in his head, _‘He’s lost himself completely.’_

If he never saw another interviewer or reporter again, it would be too soon. The propaganda... true or not, was all but ceasing to make its mark; burning itself into his skin like a branding iron intent on forging and reshaping his character. Permanently. Sometimes he wished he lived in isolation. No longer would he have to live up to the standards of others. No longer would he be forced to face the ridicule and torment fame had to offer on a daily basis. He’d please himself and only himself. If only it were that simple. Was this the start of madness after all?

Feeling increasingly disoriented, the rhythm guitarist brought a hand to his chest; an uneven, rapid heartbeat having settled in since that dreaded moment in which Ringo had dared to open his mouth unleashing the terrible reminder of what he’d become. Apprehension, waiting on the wings to reclaim him, weaseled its way back into the picture and he found himself taking in a deep breath; desperate to calm his endlessly reeling mind. The apprehension began to progress even further, wrapping itself around his still pounding heart like something of a vice. His breathing quickened and all at once, a vague sensation of dizziness rushed in. Instinctively closing his eyes against it, John eased himself backwards, his back seeking out the support of the door he’d closed behind him. He laid his head back and practiced deep breaths. His heart rate seemed to accelerate even more though the dizziness subsided somewhat.

Why he’d chosen the bathroom to seek solitude, the guitarist would never know. But once the full realization of where he was dawned on him, he made a pronounced effort to approach the sink; frowning vaguely at how much energy it seemed to drain from him. Promptly, he turned on the cold water and watched for a while as cool liquid swished around the sink in a carefree fashion before spiraling down the drain. Still in a disoriented, apprehension- induced spell, he cupped his hands beneath the stream catching whatever he could before splashing it in his face. He needed to calm down, he’d long since realized. He needed to cool his head. This was the only way he knew how.

The neglected wounds of his injured hand had begun seeping a bit from a lack of care, enough to intermittently turn the water from its colorless form to a transparent reddish-pink. He wondered absently if he’d maybe need some antiseptic as Ringo had earlier suggested. Then he shrugged off the thought, his anxiety-ravaged brain dismissing it altogether. It wasn’t _that_ bad. He’d suffered far worse in his lifetime.

After what he thought to be long enough, Lennon turned off the tap and reached for a roll of paper towel which he proceeded to wrap around his knuckles. To his annoyance, they continued to bleed freely, dotting the paper immediately with rapidly growing pinpoints of transparent pink fluid. Bloody fucking hell... Just when he was sure his stupid hand was on the mend. Stupid mirror... Stupid media... stupid Ringo... Stupid everything! His heart hadn’t slowed down in the least bit... and he began to wonder if maybe he was having a heart attack. He was even a bit faint. Lightheaded. Maybe it was his punishment for allowing everything to fall out of his control in the first place.

The brunt of the interviewer’s words from yesterday filled his mind right then. _‘How do you stay so thin and eat so much, George?’_ Or whatever the bloody fuck she’d said. All Lennon had truly heard was everything concealed between the lines. _‘You’re the big eater, George. Why is John so repulsively fat?’_ And from the rest of the media, he’d heard without it actually being said: _‘Poor, poor fat Beatle, John... he must be so fat, it’s absorbed his bloody feelings. Mock him till he very well can’t even stand the sight of himself...’_

Shaking now, he forced in a deep breath, realizing that he was beginning to struggle with that as well.

 _“You don’t even live up to those standards... They called ye’ fat and yer not...”_ The biased opinion of Ringo in addition to the general opinions of everyone supposedly in his corner were somehow just as if not even more hurtful than the straightforward insults. Why? Every single one of his mates hiding behind the words of comfort was deliberately set on lying to his face just for the sake of sparing his feelings... and in doing so; they were consciously overlooking the elephant that was clearly in the room. They felt sorry for him... For _him_. Everything he’d worked so hard at constructing, including the resilient spirit that guided him through just about anything, was collapsing around him at alarming rates.... and in all honesty, he couldn’t seem to do anything to right any of it. He was falling apart as the world, judging and vindictive as it was, watched. No matter which way he looked at it, it _just_ wasn’t fair. _Poor, poor fat Beatle. He just can’t seem to gain control of who he is..._

Something wet trickled down his cheek and shaking still, the distraught musician reached up a tentative hand to wipe it away. For a brief moment of subsequent confusion, he stared hard at the back of his hand as though trying to determine whether or not it was residual water from the tap or actual tears. As more wetness replaced it, it became suddenly obvious though he didn’t wish to accept it, that he was crying. Great. Another side of him, he wasn’t entirely familiar with. He was changing all the time, wasn’t he? And never was it actually for the better. He could hardly look at himself any longer. Even now with a mirror directly in front of him at his disposal, the thought completely repelled him. He couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t do it.

Completely disenchanted and growing more so by the second, John turned his head away entirely, his still shaking body rendering the should-be-simple action nearly impossible. The tremors continued to spread, invading his arms and extending down the length of his legs. He literally had to grip the edge of the sink to keep from dropping as a result. His chest ached. His lungs burned. He felt sick. He felt disgusting. He felt— Mouth suddenly full, he managed to bring his head back over the sink just in time to project its contents into it. Painfully and violently, the unforeseen act repeated itself with little warning, everything inside of him appearing before his very eyes. Stunned and still unable to comprehend what had just taken place, he staggered back a few feet only to rush forward once more as he vomited yet again. And again after that. This bout was even less forgiving as it refused to let up even as there was nothing left to bring up, there having been nothing much inside him to begin with. It fucking hurt; his ribcage, his head, everything. With each heave, he felt he was losing even more of his ability to breathe. And it grew worse all the time. As his barely functioning mind struggled to conquer this newly frightening development, the only coherent thought he was capable of producing was _‘make it stop!’_

It wasn’t until the entire room began to grey and spin about him, that something inside of him abruptly dislodged and he found himself on his knees emitting forth deep, pathetic, wailing sobs. The dry heaves spontaneously subsided as he officially gave in to the sorrowful song of his soul and cried; his chest aching profusely with the effort. He cried until he couldn’t see straight. He cried until there wasn’t a tear left to spill. He cried himself into a lull. Deep, silent, and emotionless.

Seconds turned to minutes turned to half an hour... Then... in a literal blink of an eye, reality rushed in once more like a tidal wave driving away the aberrant stillness of time; making it as though it had never happened. Void of sensation, robbed of much memory, and filled to the very brim with a heavy lethargy clouding what remained of his current mentality, the fragile rhythm guitarist forced his painfully drained body to its feet. Gathering whatever amount of strength remained inside him, he managed to clean up his mess before drawing a bath finding himself in need of a full cleansing from head to toe. Unaware that he’d actually been victim to something of a nervous breakdown, he drove himself in the only direction he could go from there on. Forward.

As he absently stripped down and eased himself into the bathtub full of steaming hot water, he shut down once more as sleep crept in to claim his body and reboot his mind. In another blink of the eye, he knew no more.


	12. Crippled Inside

He was covered in prune-like wrinkles when he awoke. And it took him nearly an entire minute to come to the realization that he was seated, shivering like mad, in a tub of lukewarm water. What proved even more alarming was the lack of memory regarding how he’d gotten to this point. He couldn’t even remember coming to the initial decision of wanting a bath, let alone actually going ahead and making the desire a reality. And what had happened in the meantime of doing so? He’d allowed himself to drift off? He’d fallen asleep? Why did he feel so groggy? So dazed? So disoriented? So worn out and frail? The more the rhythm guitarist struggled to comprehend all waves of confusion as they surfaced within him, the further away logic slipped. And there it sat; all things sense-worthy, dancing just on the edge of perception. What time was it anyway? Oddly enough, he could hardly remember if it was morning, noon, or night.

A series of urgent thuds sounded at the door and Lennon jerked up, his attention drawn in its direction of the emanating sound. He wanted to answer verbally, but for the strangest reason, he didn’t think he could trust his voice. Instead, he carried on wordlessly, reaching a startlingly heavy arm down into the water and subsequently pulling the plug from the drain of the bathtub. Christ, was it he’d gotten so bloody fat, he could hardly make use of his own arms? Moving quite gingerly, he rose to his feet, ignoring the sudden head-rush that momentarily nullified every sense his body was capable of. As he stepped carefully out of the tub, the floor seeming to shimmer and quake beneath him, he managed to reach for a stray bathrobe located conveniently on a nearby hook and without taking the time to dry himself off, slipped it over his chilled, fragile, exposed body. He took time to take in a deep breath, in a failed attempt to clear his spinning head before gravitating slowly on bare feet towards the bathroom door. His entire body ached with the effort. Honestly, he didn’t he didn’t feel very good.

“John?! Thank goodness!!” Paul nearly fell on him as John pulled the door open. The bassist’s clumsy entrance proved immediate evidence that he’d been leaning his entire self against the door prior to its arbitrary opening.

John couldn’t help but stare back, complete incredulity gracing his worn out features as he faced yet something else he couldn’t readily comprehend. “What are ye’ on about?” he demanded. As he spoke, he realized he had great reason not to trust his voice. It was raspy and tired sounding.

“You’ve been gone fer so long! And then when I heard you running the water, I figured you were taking a bath, but then when y’refused to come out or even respond, we got a bit worried.”

John scratched the back of his head as he attempted to turn up some kind of truth surrounding the situation. Frankly, it was like a chunk of time had been ripped clean from his memory. “Guess I dropped off or something...” he mumbled absently.

“Well we were bloody worried!” Paul exclaimed.

“ _Who_ was worried?” John questioned, his eyes narrowing slightly. Strangely enough, he was beginning to feel a bit unreasonably defensive in regards to his whereabouts and whom they should concern. Even if he was hardly aware of them himself.

“All of us...” Brian popped up from somewhere behind Paul.

John’s eyes narrowed even more as they sharply fell on the manager, intruding on his conversation for all he cared to acknowledge. “Well, I’m _fine_!” he snapped, “And there’s _nothing_ to see ‘ere if y’can’t already tell!”

Brian’s mouth opened and fell shut several times before he gave way to a slight nod. “Come ‘ead all,” he announced, holding the heated gaze of the blatantly temperamental rhythm guitarist with alarming bravado, “There’s nothing to see here.” And with that, he turned away, obediently bowing out of his projected line of vision.

“He sounds all right, anyroad,” George could be heard quipping from somewhere out of sight, “His mouth ain’t broken, that’s fer sure.”

“And me ‘ands aren’t either!” John sharply called after him, “Come back and I’ll test ‘em out on ye’!”

Whatever George’s response was, John couldn’t be arsed to even begin to figure it out. Instead, he turned back to Paul, his irritated persona giving way only slightly in the sole presence of his best mate. “I’m out. Satisfied?” he asked, his tone depicting characteristic derision despite the present exhaustion weighing it down, “Now y’can all get on with yer pointless lives.”

Paul made no move to turn away. Rather, he took a step back and frowned observing what he could of him. “No.” he stated slowly after a while, “No, I’m not satisfied. Y’don’t look so hot, y’know...”

“Attacking me to me face now are ye’, McCartney?” John snapped, his eyes once again, narrowing irrationally upon the bassist, “Good on’ yer... Nice to know something of me ‘as rubbed off on yer nancy arse.”

Temporarily thrown for a loop, Paul allowed his eyes to widen in a fit of surprise before he gradually came to his senses. “No, y’git!” he sharply retorted, visibly put off by the outlandish presumption.

John arched an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“I jus’ meant, y’don’t look right... Y’look sorta... sick actually...”

Lennon’s expression eased up and he found remorse, in regards to his tongue-lashing, slipping through him. “Oh.” His gaze dropped and he kicked semi-distractedly at the tiled floor beneath his feet. “Well, I’m fine, y’know.”

“Are y’now?” A sudden figment of suspicion proceeded to darken McCartney’s face, “I get the feeling ye’ aren’t taking very good care of yerself...” he blurted out before he could even begin to stop himself. He couldn’t help it. It had been something he’d been meaning to say now for two days.

“And what are we on about now?” John heavily sighed, his lackadaisical attitude doing nothing to hide his choice of simply humoring the bassist.

“These last few days, you’ve been overly tired and agitated even more so than you’ve been lately and that’s saying a lot. I can’t even get near you without fearing that yer gonna rip me ‘ead off or something to that extent! ‘S’like walking on eggshells all the bloody time!! And if that ain’t enough of a problem, I ‘aven’t failed to notice that yer hardly eating lately either...” Paul paused, carefully measuring his mate’s reaction. After deeming it safe to continue, he hurriedly did so. “What’s going on with you, and when’s it gonna stop?” he concluded finally.

“Why don’t we jus’ wait and see?” John responded, unable to control the flow of haughtiness that simultaneously tumbled out. He made a frustrated attempt to push past McCartney but the bassist refused to budge, his body like a brick wall. John staggered back, slightly dazed. When did the bassist get so strong? Or better yet, when had he, himself, gotten so weak? “Let me pass, y’bloody sod!” he growled.

Paul continued to stand his ground. “No! Y’aren’t running away from me this time! I won’t let you!”

“Why do y’even care, Macca...?” John mumbled wistfully, his entire demeanor finally drained of all things energetic, “Y’made it pretty clear the other day what yer feelings were...”

Paul pensively sighed, his eyes finding John’s. “When we started fighting, I didn’t mean a thing of what I said...” he quietly affirmed, the beginnings of his story pouring forth, “I was just a bit frustrated with you really, and the fact that y’weren’t opening up to me. I know yer not one to keep secrets and... the fact that y’wouldn’t talk to me... even in private... Well... it bloody hurt!”

“I wasn’t in a state of wanting to talk,” John retorted hoarsely, “Why couldn’t y’jus’ except that?”

“Well, since when are ye’ ever one to hold anything back, anyway?” Paul demanded challengingly.

As Paul’s energy grew by the second, so did John’s lethargy, “I don’t know, Paul...” he murmured, an uncharacteristic sense of defeat evident in his tone, “Things change.”

It was Paul’s turn to narrow his eyes at John. “What do y’mean?” he asked.

John hesitated momentarily before responding, his words almost eerily robotic in nature. “I don’t... really know...”

Paul’s eyebrows knitted together in a portrayal of concern as he continued to study his counterpart, “John...” he began hesitantly, faltering immediately as he acknowledged his lack of sureness regarding how to proceed. “Wh-what’s going on with you?”

John snapped to as though coming from a daze. “I’m fine, Macca,” he wrapped his arms around himself shivering suddenly and involuntarily as if just coming to the realization that he was standing clad in a bathrobe. “What, yer gonna hold me captive in the bathroom all morning?” he questioned with a bit of a tired smirk contrast to his recent, almost unnatural display, “‘M’sure Eppy would love that.”

The comedic approach, whatever the purpose of its origin, had no effect on McCartney. He stood rigid; his gaze unmoving from John’s face which he began to realize was still decidedly pale. “What’s going on with you, _really_?” he asked once more, hoping third time was the charm in getting a sought out honest answer, “Are y’feeling okay? Y’seem off. More than a little off, actually...”

“I’m a bit tired but... fine I think...” John literally found he that had to struggle to think back to verify if whether or not what he was saying was true. But his memory was failing him. He could hardly remember what he said seconds ago, let alone grip any strange past events that Paul was observing and now questioning. It didn’t help that his brain felt increasingly jumbled, like he has attempting to think his way through a bowl of split pea soup. His brain... actually... hurt... and the results left him permanently light and muddleheaded. Perhaps, he’d benefit from a kip or something...

John’s return gaze was so blank and unreceptive, that Paul saw no other option but to drop the subject for the time being. Perhaps, he was overanalyzing things? He did have a nasty habit of doing so. “Maybe y’should catch a kip before we take off,” he suggested, seeming to be reading Lennon’s mind, “Might do y’some good if yer not... feeling well or something... Or...” his expression brightened, “perhaps, you should eat something and then take a kip. That works wonders on a rundown body I hear.”

John frowned in the face of his mate’s newfound optimism. The thought of eating actually sickened him. “Actually, I’m not feeling me best now that y’mention it. Think a kip should work wonders.”

Paul’s frown sagged to match John’s. “Aren’t y’hungry?” he asked.

John shook his head. “Not really, Paul... I told ye’ I don’t feel well...” He paused momentarily in a strained effort to think before opening his mouth once more, “Y’know, most people don’t realize it, but forcing yerself to eat when yer not hungry is a common common mistake.”

Paul arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, “Says who?”

John shrugged, “Jus’ listen ‘round. It’s everywhere.”

“But if ye’ ‘aven’t eaten then shouldn’t ye’—”

“It doesn’t matter,” John interrupted, “That has nothing t’do with anything!”

McCartney’s frown lengthened as he struggled to make sense of Lennon’s newfound logic. He failed miserably. Nonetheless, he stepped aside, allowing for his mate to pass him. “If yer say so...” came his uncertain, doubt-filled response.

John smiled, finally appearing pleased with himself. “If y’need me, I’ll be doing what I do best. Sleeping.”

“In today’s attire?”

Lennon shrugged, “Sure. That way I won’t have to bother readying meself later.”

“You’ll get it wrinkled! Eppy will have a—”

“Eppy can kiss me arse.”

As John disappeared from sight, Paul couldn’t shake the irrational, surfacing feeling that his best mate was walking away from him in more ways than one.


	13. Nowhere Man

John was dead to the world by the time Ringo got around to waking him. Despite the fact that it was Harrison who’d been Lennon’s roommate at the particular hotel they were in the process of leaving and therefore should’ve been responsible, it was _he_ of all people that had been granted the task via Brian to rouse him. _Him_. _Ringo_. And when the petite drummer had looked to Paul for help and possible escape, the bassist had simply nodded his approval as though the words ‘John’s Keeper’ were scrawled across his face in comically big red letters for all to see. Perhaps such a visual label _did_ exist—right across his very forehead at that. There had to have been _some_ reason Brian had seen him fit for such a treacherous, potentially fatal task. Ringo smirked. _‘…Or rather Brian has gone senile in his early years…’_ he mentally concluded. _That_ seemed much more likely.

How lucky for him though. _‘It’s me lucky day really,’_ the oldest Beatle muttered to himself, sarcasm ringing in his own ears as he perched presently at the foot of Lennon’s bed. It had taken him everything to get to this particular point in his journey. Everything to drag his protesting limbs through the halls, through the open doorway of his mates’ shared rooms, and finally into the enclosed atmosphere that surrounded their beds. And all the while it had felt wrong. The very air felt wrong, honestly. As though it was holding within its eerie silence, the calm before the storm. Ringo released a sigh as he stared anxiously at his mate’s sleeping form, having just realized he’d been unnecessarily holding his breath. John looked so peaceful. More peaceful than he’d looked in months. Momentarily gone were the traces of stress, exhaustion, and the general world-weariness that he seemed to have been carrying around as of late like a second skin. And serving as the one to unintentionally have to bring it all back via reintroduction to the conscious world, the drummer found he was in a bit of a panic. _He_ would be the one to regrettably have to disturb him.

A resulting feeling of dread danced in the pit of his stomach as the realization continued to solidify within the boundaries of his mind. This really _was_ the calm before the storm. The drummer could easily recall several times from his past in which waking John when he didn’t wish to be disturbed had gone horribly wrong. He, Paul, George, and even Brian had been on the receiving end of some extremely colorful language that would make even the most vulgar pirate in the world blush. On some occasions, a sporadic punch wasn’t out of the ordinary either. Ringo winced, a hand moving to his jaw as he recounted a particularly sharp blow Lennon had once unleashed upon him while locked in a dazed stupor as he’d fought to escape pending consciousness. The bruise had lingered for weeks before it finally faded; John boasting all the while in its aftermath that he had what it took to pummel him senseless in his sleep single-handedly if he very well wanted to. Ringo bristled at the memory. Well he’d be damned if he were going to let such a thing happen all over again. Why should Lennon even get to sleep so late in the morning anyhow? How was that fair when he and the others were left to slave endlessly not just to pack things up for transport, but to take up his slack as well? Lazy git. Anxiety switched to full out envy as the oldest Beatle glared daggers at his younger mate’s sleeping form. He was _just_ as tired as John was. He was sure of it. The _others_ were _just_ as tired as John was. He was sure of that! And this had gone on long enough.

Verdict made, Ringo finally approached the bed with a purpose and lay a hand on John’s exposed shoulder. Lying soundly on his side, the sleeping Beatle hardly stirred even as the grip tightened with perseverance.

“John…” Ringo dared to add, his voice barely higher than a whisper.

There was no reaction. Not even a fluttering of eyelids.

“John!” Ringo dared to raise his voice another octave.

Stillness met his eyes and ears.

_Blimey!_ Shaking his head in slight frustration, the drummer lightly jostled John’s shoulder—a feat that was usually all it took to wake him.

Still nothing. _Odd_. It was rare for the rhythm guitarist to be caught sleeping so heavily… especially when he’d merely settled down for a kip. Grip tightening even more, the drummer proceeded to shake Lennon even harder. “John!” he called louder still; his outdoor voice coming out for a turn. If this wasn’t everything enough, there would definitely have to be something wrong…

Eyes snapped open just like that; unseeing at first as they swung about the room in a fit of apprehension and confusion.

“John, it’s me!” Ringo informed him, taking a hand and waving it in front of his band mate’s unfocused eyes. As the light brown orbs passed over him, recognition evaded them evermore losing out to the panic that predominantly seemed to occupy them. He looked so raw. So unguarded.

“Julia…” John mumbled.

Ringo immediately felt uncomfortable. Out of place. “Uh… no, John…” He immediately began gesturing to himself as though introducing himself to a child, “Ringo… Starr…”

At the mention of the drummer’s name, John blinked and his eyes instantaneously regained clarity as he sharply looked Ringo up and down. “The fuck yer announcing yer name fer?!” he irritably growled.

And Ringo froze, unsure of how to proceed. “You… uh…”

At his loss of words, John smirked in open amusement, “Cat got yer tongue?”

Ringo fell silent, his stammering tapering off on command. “You called me Julia…” he mumbled softly, “Were you dreaming about her?” He studied John’s face, prepared to gauge his reaction and response but all too soon, it seemed as though the rhythm guitarist’s attention had managed to veer off course. Lennon had turned away from Ringo, his gaze, distant and lost; cast indifferently towards a window several feet to the left of his bed. And as the drummer studied him with increasing curiosity, things he’d managed to overlook upon taking in his sleeping form mere minutes ago were suddenly leaping out at him.

Sleep had simply been a mask, the drummer realized. A mask somehow dense enough to obscure things that should’ve been visibly obvious to begin with. For instance, the pallor. It was the type of pallor that crept into every bit of John’s facial features, darkening the now apparent bags under his groggy, dimmed eyes, and announcing all the while, traces of pronounced exhaustion with a fanfare hard to ignore. It literally looked like John hadn’t seen sleep in months. Ringo frowned. But…he’d looked nothing like this earlier in the morning had he? And if so, how had he missed such obvious tells that something was wrong?

He must’ve been staring hard, his mouth agape because next thing he knew, Lennon’s gaze was upon him once more, a look of suspicion darkening his unnaturally pale face. “See something y’like?” he snapped, his voice so sharp, it caused Ringo to blink.

The drummer in response, gave his head a shake as though to clear all traces of his antics, and settled his focus on John all over again. “ _No_!” he barked back, “… _Yes_ … I mean…” He paused abruptly, mentally berating himself for sounding like such an idiot. “…A-are you _all right_ , John?” he blurted out, ample concern squeaking out around the edges of his spur-of-the-moment question.

“Fine…” John curtly responded, suspicion still very much in place, “Are _you_?”

“Fine…” Ringo echoed. He dropped his gaze sheepishly, having read between the lines of the question John had derisively thrown back at him. It was plain as day which made it all the more embarrassing. In his two simple words, John had managed to convey successfully in perfect, condescending implication: ‘ _What the bloody hell is wrong with you?’_

So he let it drop. All of it. “I’m not the one lyin’ about in bed like a lazy git in the middle of the morning, anyroad,” he added attempting to save face and stave off any further humiliation Lennon would characteristically want to stick to him, “Get yer arse up. Unless you’d rather y’were left behind, ‘s’about time we leave.”

“Jus’ leave then…” John grumbled, reaching childishly to pull a pillow over his head.

“Y’wanna be the one t’tell that to Eppy?” Ringo challenged, an eyebrow arched up somewhere beneath his long light brown bangs.

“And watch ‘im get ‘is knickers in a permanent twist?” John mumbled back, his words heavy with something Ringo couldn’t quite identify, “I can think of a thousand ways I’d rather spend me day…”

“Or die,” Ringo added with a smirk, “You’d better get moving ‘less that’s a road y’fancy venturing down.”

“Sod off already…” Lennon growled miserably. Nonetheless, he began to peel the blankets off of himself, his antics filled with resentment as he worked at freeing himself. He wasn’t far into the process before it was gradually brought to his own attention that the fingers of his neglected, injured right hand didn’t seem to be functioning as well; struggling stiffly to keep up with the fingers of his left. It quickly became evident that the whole hand felt a bit swollen; the knuckles sticky, warm, and throbbing. Curiosity piquing, John brought it briefly into the light, taking care to deflect any additional eyes courtesy of Ringo, and flexed it momentarily; examining it all the while. It hardly looked much better than it felt. _Lovely_. He wondered vaguely if it would affect his guitar playing…

“What’s the matter?” Ringo asked suddenly, noting his younger mate’s change in demeanor, “Something wrong?”

Lennon hastily shoved his hand further out of sight and made a final, rather dramatic show of ripping the remaining blankets off of him. “Nothing, ‘m’fine…” he adamantly pronounced, disguising a wince. As he forced himself to sit up, he was stricken instantly, a look of pain engulfing his face subsequently paling it even more if possible. Scrambling hands flew to his temples in the act of soothing massage before gradually moving to his eyes while switching to a rubbing motion. He grimaced as his hands fell away. “Headache…” he wearily explained to Ringo’s questioning eyes.

“Are y’ _sure_ yer all right?” Ringo demanded right then and there. “Yer acting off… and not jus’ today… lately.”

“What makes y’say that?” John questioned; his light, seemingly flippant tone a glaring contrast to the eyebrow he now raised in goading challenge.

“Well… ‘onestly, y’don’t seem all right…”

The rhythm guitarist shrugged forth his indifference, his entire body seeming to deflate exhaustedly in the process. “So I’ve heard…”

“Well—”

“… and it’s led me to believe that you people need to direct yer attention elsewhere,” the younger Beatle went on intrusively, “Must be hard on the rest of the band’s publicity, realizing that I’m always the center of topic these days. And I don’t even ‘ave to ask fer it.” He smirked smugly as though he’d been enjoying the unwanted attention all along, but there was a vague hollowness about it making the entire effort seem half-assed.

“But John…” Ringo began again, not sure how to even continue this… whatever it was—conversation so to speak.

John impatiently silenced him, holding up a hand as though shielding himself from the drummer’s words, “But John _nothing_ ,” he countered mockingly, a glare shadowing his features once more; this one speaking volumes in the warnings it portrayed, “Last thing I need from you or _anyone_ fer that matter is a psychological evaluation of me mental state.”

“I—”

“ _Or_ physical… _or_ emotional state,” Lennon hastily sneered, “ _Got it?_ I’m _fine_. I’ve _been_ bloody _fine_ … I’ll _be_ bloody _fine_.” With his response set on topic dismissal, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and allowed for his feet to find the ground. Once set, he debated on actually getting up. Not only did every muscle seem to want to veto his every action, but… his head seemed to be set on a similar set path. It didn’t just hurt either. Now that he was sitting up; it felt eerily light… detached… as though it were somehow a separate entity from the rest of his body.

Ringo rolled his eyes, still dwelling on his mate’s last spoken words. “ _Fine_. Right. Spoken like someone who’s clearly all of the above,” he sarcastically retorted. “That’s why ye’ ‘aven’t been eating…” He paused; wonder sinking in at the very tail-end of the statement he’d just uttered. “Why _‘aven’t_ y’been eating, anyroad?” he asked, “Care to enlighten me or is that topic off limits as well?”

John blinked several times, struggling to assess the abnormal state of his body. “What’s it to ye’?” he absently remarked after a while.

Blue watchful eyes suddenly widened as suspicion dawned within them. “Christ, John… y’don’t _really_ think yer _fat_ do ye’? Like the newspapers said?”

The younger musician bristled reactively, his eyes narrowing as they found Ringo’s face and locked on. “Don’t be daft, y’stupid git,” he snarled, his voice full of scorn, “Do I bloody _look_ like I bloody care what those soddin’, low-life prats ‘ave t’say about me?!”

Ringo looked thoughtful for a moment, then vaguely doubtful. “I don’t know…” he ventured, “Do ye’? … Y’certainly had quite a bit t’say on the topic the night of that interview…”

Lennon rolled his eyes with a grunt of pronounced disgust. “Well, this may come as news to ye’, Rings, but the _tart_ interviewing us was a downright _prat_!!”

“She was, wasn’t she?” Ringo agreed after a while of mulling the past experience over in his head. He smirked. “Especially in the way she kept trying t’set you and Georgie against each other with that contrast thing of hers. ‘S’like she was trying to make ye’ out into some big, fat—”

“ _Enough_!” John intrusively interjected. He then added in a tone much softer, “I was there y’know…”

Ringo nodded, feeling consequently guilty for forcing them both to relive such an awful encounter. “Point was… y’put ‘er in ‘er place. Good on ye’, Johnny, really.” It had been quite enjoyable too, watching Lennon rise up like a lion and drive his opinion home into the heart of the interviewing tart. It had made him proud. Like one of those heroic moments when one witnessed a friend stand up to bully, feeling nothing but awe and respect as the scene played out before their very eyes. “Made us right proud. Even ol’ Eppy I imagine.”

John frowned. “Christ, yer not gon’ cry like some nancy now, are ye’? At least let me outta ‘ere before y’start!” His legs wavered momentarily as he finally stood, forcing him to lean temporarily on the post of his bed. ‘ _When did the simple act of standing become such a challenge, anyroad?_ ’ he wondered vaguely. All at once, his head swam as the ground transformed into a rolling sea of… carpet. Startled by the unexpected tilt-a-whirl, he turned to look at Ringo who, oblivious, was halfway through a statement, his gaze elsewhere and his mouth moving a mile a minute though no actual sound escaped. It was strangely like someone had gone and turned the volume down on him… on his entire word…Then just as suddenly, the world righted itself and all fell into place, and the tail end of whatever the hell it was Ringo had been saying caught his ears. And he wasn’t even talking to him.

John’s gaze followed Ringo’s to the doorway of the room. Both Brian and Paul, having apparently manifested out of the blue, were camped out in the opening, eyes fixated on Ringo and whatever the hell it was he’d been saying.

“When did y’guys get ‘ere?” John blurted out lamely.

Apparently it had been the wrong thing to say because all three of his companions turned to look at him in near unison, their eyes portraying obvious wonder and bemusement.

“A good minute ago at least,” Paul responded, glancing down at his watch. He cocked his head at John, “Y’didn’t notice?”

John frowned, momentarily lost for words. “No I _did_ … I was just uh… surprised…” he finished, this statement somehow sounding even lamer than the last.

“Really, we wanted to make sure y’didn’t clock Ringo again upon waking,” Paul explained with a lighthearted grin.

Ringo shot Paul with a glare to which Paul chuckled.

“ _Actually_ we were wondering what was taking so long,” Brian assertively took it upon himself to elaborate. His eyes darkened with disapproval as he studied the disheveled rhythm guitarist before him.

Lennon studied him back before waving him off altogether in a dismissive manner. “Well nothing’s keeping me. I’m up. You can call off the guards.”

Brian refused to be waved off. Instead he marched further into the room and edged himself into John’s line of vision. “But look at you!” he proceeded to reprimand him, “You’re a bloody mess!”

John stared back jadedly, his reaction minimal if perceptible. “Was it really necessary that _two_ of ye’ check up on me whereabouts?” he retorted sardonically. He pointedly made an effort to glance past Brian and past Paul into the hallway behind them. “Is there a third as well?” he added mockingly, “Where’s Geo in all this? Y’didn’t leave ‘im t’himself did ye’? Y’know what ‘appens when y’leave ‘im alone!” A half-smirk crossed his face, “Let me jus’ say that I’m not responsible fer any trouble our lil’ mate ‘appens to get himself into during this unplanned little meeting of yers.”

Eppy drew in a deep breath. “ _George_ is _not_ my current concern, Lennon. He’s waiting in the car as we speak, considerately following the schedule that _I_ set like I _bloody_ well _asked_ of you in the first place!!”

Paul glanced at his watch again, before hurriedly making the decision to intercept the conversation before things blew out of proportion like he knew it would. “We need to leave… _now_.”

Brian too glanced at his watch before glancing back to Lennon. “This conversation isn’t over!” he growled before turning and leaving the room.

John’s smirk widened, “It hardly began, love,” he called after him, “Fancy the colorful language though. Made me all tingly inside.”

There was a frustrated clench of fists as Brian departed, but rather than give in to the obviously degrading sarcasm-spun words of the rhythm guitarist, no more was said from his end.

Sensing the building tension from the manager, Ringo sailed out the door behind him, beckoning persuasively for the others to follow suit. With a heaved sigh, John moved to follow only to be stopped in his tracks as McCartney grabbed his arm. Hard. Caught off guard, John quickly struggled to pull himself free from his mate’s iron-clad grip. “What?” he snapped, the instant he’d succeeded.

“I don’t understand you sometimes, John,” Paul sighed, incredulity flowing out with the outward push of air, “Do ye’ _like_ attracting controversy or something?”

“I _like_ keeping things interesting,” John rejoined, “Anything else or can we draw this pointless little interview to a close?”

“We’ll draw it to a close when I’ve nothing more to say,” Paul responded, brief exasperation coloring his voice. He paused abruptly, heaving a sigh to help settle his escalating nerves. Once he was sure he had his emotions in check, he continued with as much casualty as he could muster. “How’re y’feeling by the way? Yer kip help you any?”

“It was until a certain drummer crudely pulled me out from it. But still, I’m actually rather fan-bloody-tastic,” John remarked, his tone much too flippant to ignore, “ _Now_ we done ‘ere? Or do y’require a pencil and a pad of paper to write it down? Perhaps y’want to report to the media?”

Paul shook his head, full of dismay that Lennon found irrelevant. “The way y’wear cynicism constantly… I’m surprised y’haven’t long since worn it through yet.”

“Sod off, McCartney.” With such words, he impulsively turned his back on Paul with an air of finality and strode out of the room. He’d just entered the hall when his stomach chose that very moment to issue a melancholic growl for attention. Suddenly red-faced with embarrassment at its loudness, he only picked up his pace, hoping all the while that a certain bassist following closely behind hadn’t picked up on it. Perhaps he should grab something on the way out. After all, he didn’t eat much that morning, did he? He couldn’t seem to remember much that had happened before his impromptu bath. He must not have eaten though. Maybe a small bite of something wouldn’t hurt…

But after allowing a wandering hand to locate the waistband of his pants feeling the snugness as they hugged his waist, he idly allowed the idea to be dismissed. He wouldn’t be helping his case in the least bit. As much as he didn’t want to think about it let alone admit it, it was becoming increasingly obvious that he really had a problem. And his brain could hardly deal with the severity of it all…

‘ _You’re fat!_ ’ one half of his brain would constantly accuse.

‘ _No you’re not!_ ’ the other half would affirm, ‘ _It’s what the press_ wants _you to think! Don’t let them win! Let them feed off your resentment and they win!_ ’

‘ _Speaking of_ feed _, don’t you think it’s time to eat, fatty fat fat?!_ ’ half-one would sneer.

‘ _If you let them have their way, there won’t be much anything to keep you from believing it yourself!_ ’ half-two, ever the voice of reason had tried to prevail.

‘ _Believe it! You’re_ fat _! A right fatty, fat, fat,_ fat _sorry sap!_ ’

‘ _But then again, if so many people think it true then it must be true…_ ’the voice of reason was quick to lose all faith… failing… Always failing…

‘Believe _it!!_ _Fat_ pig _…oink, oink,_ oink _…_ ’

‘ _It’s true…_ ’All was lost.

‘ _Fat…fat… fat…_ fat _!_ ’

‘ _And_ useless too _… the band can barely function with you around! Surely the whole world agrees. Surely the whole world thinks it so…_ ’

At some point past thoughts melded with present thoughts…

‘ _Purge all you want but in the end it won’t help._ Nothing _can shut down the endless pain you choose to bring on yourself… After all, you can’t purge your soul… your tortured, tormented soul…_ ’

“Johnny… are you all right?”

Slowly, Lennon came back to himself, concluding inwardly that he had somehow drifted away from himself… _Far_ away from himself. At some point, he had walked up to the nearest wall, leaned up against its surface, and began some feat of pressing both hands up against his head, gripping with all his might as though willing the voices to stop— the voices of his mind competing for attention… in his _head_ … He’d be damned if he didn’t think that made him sound crazy.

He let his hands drop limply to his side, his exhausted, mentally tormented body melting into the wall behind him. “No… yes… I don’t know…” he blushed furiously at how stripped of his façade he was at this point… and this time he wasn’t on his own but in the presence of none other than his best mate. The one who could read him like a bloody open book. Fucking hell…

“What’s wrong?”

John sighed. He’d be the richest man on earth if he’d bother receive payment for every time someone had chosen to ask him that. Still, he steadied himself mentally and attempted to explain things in the lightest manner he knew how. “Ever feel… I don’t know… overwhelmed…?”

Having been standing rigid like a plank of wood in observation of the rhythm guitarist, McCartney finally softened up, approaching Lennon with a gentle, comforting easiness. “All the time, love,” he stated seriously, “Anything in particular bothering you?”

Where could he start? John frowned with a slight shake of the head, inwardly disgusted by how nancy he was becoming. “Everything…” he blurted out, “this lifestyle… the fame… I don’t know how we’ve kept it all going fer so long…”

Paul shrugged, “It’s what we do… Somehow we jus’ do it…”

“But _what_ —” John started only to quickly shut himself down. ‘ _But what if I don’t want to do it anymore…? What if I can’t? Christ, I can hardly get out of bed anymore…_ ’ Was what his mind had been near prepared to let slip. But it was bad enough McCartney even knew something was wrong… He didn’t need to portray to him the fact that he might be mentally collapsing as well… What the fuck was he supposed to do here? Continue on miserable and targeted? Continue being the butt of the media’s retorts? Just power up and robot through it all, all while turning a blind eye to the daggers the world seemed keen on throwing at him? Could he, as a human being equipped with the ability to feel, do any such thing? How could he? How could he when all it did was make him hate himself? Hate… it was such a strong word yet so fitting…

“John?”

John felt Paul’s hand grace his shoulder, heard his voice. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye. Instead he shrugged his mate’s hand off, impulsively pushed himself up off the wall, and continued en route, as though nothing had happened, towards the suite entrance. As he descended the stairs to the main lobby, he ignored the dizzy spell that threatened to land him on his face and the accompanying headache that bore into his now short-circuiting brain. And the new ache that was growing in his stomach, he ignore that too.

And Paul, he sighed, all anxieties and apprehensions bursting forth. It was making out to be another long day already. It made him cringe to think of what Los Angeles would likely bring. Was it too early to fall prey to dread? Was it too early to fear what had yet to unravel?


	14. Ticket to Ride

_‘Stupid, drafty airplanes…’_ Lennon thought presently with an unshakeable scowl to match the unwavering, dark cloud preying on his mood. Would it bloody kill to have a little bit of heat on board? In spite of the fact that he was dressed to his utmost fullest, coat, cap, and all; the biting chill that had somehow found the time to hook its unforgiving claws into him didn’t seem to have any intentions on departing. It had first latched on to him the very moment they’d set foot into the sunshine, somewhere between the hotel and the car, and it had refused to leave throughout the entire half hour solar-heated ride to the airport. Sure it was autumn; and such a transitional season meant cooler temperatures in certain parts of the world, the northernmost and southernmost points especially as they were further from the equator. And while their place of departure had been no exception to this logic, this chill hardly resembled anything that the Beatle had ever experienced. This one seemed to originate entirely from within, rattling his bones from the inside out and spreading permanent goose bumps across his flesh. He figured it was from lack of grub. Desolate and neglected, his stomach more or less didn’t have enough within it to allow for his body to generate its usual amount of heat. So he’d dressed in layers. A lot of bloody good that did, as well. All his attire had even done for him yet was draw unnecessary attention to himself, courtesy of his mates; all in the forms of discreetly arched eyebrows, confused frowns, and the ever popular yet most annoying verbal inquiry.

 _“Aren’t y’hot in all that?”_ every single one of them had managed to ask in each their own way. Over the general duration of time spanning the course of their road transit and airport trek, Lennon was certain he’d heard it a total of five times.

And to each of those five times, he’d managed the shortest and curtest response he could think of, _“No.”_ Plain and simple.

 _“I reckon yer lying,”_ George had affirmed, calling his imaginary bluff, _“Or yer bloody daft, ye’ are!”_

 _“Right daft,”_ Ringo had lightheartedly quipped, the corners of his lips twisting up into an easy grin, _“But we’ve known that all along, ‘aven’t we, Lennon?”_

 _“Mm…”_ the rhythm guitarist had absently responded.

Sensing his disengagement, the conversation had dropped right then, only to be brought up by Paul a mere half hour later much to John’s growing annoyance. Sometimes, his own mates were as nosy and intrusive as the lot of sods that made up the bloody press. So he had set off for ‘mild’ Los Angeles a bit overdressed for the climate. Why should it bloody matter? Why should everyone waste precious time dwelling on what mattered least of all? He was cold. End of story. At least his coat covered up the real issue at hand, and maybe just maybe as a result, there’d be no one daft enough to bring up the sore subject regarding his weight. The coat swallowed him up enough that only prying eyes should be able to see what was concealed beneath. He hadn’t expected any of the others to understand.

It was in the cold cabin of the airplane ten minutes into the flight that everyone quickly began to change their tunes against their previously repelled burdensome coats. And one by one, the extra layers came out as a barrier of protection against the decidedly chilly conditioned air. George was even still fighting off a shiver a half hour later.

“Not so daft now, am I?” Lennon currently asked of the lead guitarist who he sat beside; having claimed the window seat for himself.

George turned to him slowly, an eyebrow arched, “What are ye’ on about _now_ , John?” he asked, looking his mate up and down in search of answers.

“The ‘Great Coat Scandal’. It’s come to an end now, hasn’t it?”

George’s unwavering face revealed neither agreement or disagreement on the subject, “If yer still wondering whether or not yer daft or not, the answer is _yes_. Wearing a coat in a hot car, madness, that.” He jabbed a finger at his chest, “Really, _I’m_ supposed t’be the cold one ‘ere!”

John shrugged, pure indifference undermining the action, “Y’know, I didn’t realize it was a contest, Harrison.”

“Even if it was, Harri would win, anyroad,” Paul deadpanned from his own seat across the aisle next to Ringo.

Harrison brightened appreciatively, a lopsided grin blossoming on his face, “Ta, Macca…!” Confusion gripped him nearly instantly, as he began to wonder whether or not he had taken to Paul’s statement correctly, “…I _think_ …” he added cautiously.

“Wasn’t a compliment,” both Paul and John asserted, their voices blending together in perfect unison; sure enough, confirming the lead guitarist’s initial right to be suspicious.

“And why not?” George demanded, crossings his arms over his chest as a frown ate away his grin in all its entirety.

“It means yer _cold_ ,” John supplied wryly, leaning slightly forward in his seat so that he had a partial view of Paul. As Paul’s eyes gravitated towards him, he offered him a wink; the silent action speaking as loudly as words themselves would’ve.

Paul caught John’s wink and returned it with a tiny smile. “Downright coldhearted, son!” he verified, turning back to George with a chuckle.

“So this is a team assault, then?” George asked, having been all but blind to the display.

“Consider yerself lucky,” Paul affirmed, feigning utmost serious, “Quite a few blokes out there would love to be in yer shoes right now. Subject to a good ol’fashion ribbing courtesy of Lennon-McCartney.”

George’s furrowed eyebrows, underlined without subtlety, his thoughts on such a statement.

And at this, Ringo broke out into a laugh, resulting cheerful baritone sound waves sending ripples throughout the airplane cabin.

George gaped at him, utterly appalled. “It wasn’t _that_ funny, y’know,” the lead guitarist grumbled, fixing the drummer with an unappreciative glare of irritation, “Give McCartney a swelled head, y’will, carrying on the way yer carrying.”

Unfazed, Ringo only laughed harder.

“Cor blimey, you’ll pop a lung!” Paul warned, eyes wide, “It’ll be too late to find a replacement drummer should we ‘ave to!”

“I’ll alert Brian t’start looking,” George grumbled, still glowering at the elated drummer, “At this point, _I_ wouldn’t miss ‘im.”

Ringo was wiping at teary eyes now, sporadic laughter still easing out from his diaphragm.

Watching him in amazement as he struggled for control with each hiccupping breath, it wasn’t long before Paul gradually fell victim to the same fate, unable to contain his own amusement regarding the drummer’s overload on euphoria. It was refreshing. A much needed contrast to the dreariness that was now the norm.

“Oh sod off, the both of ye’,” George muttered, failing to see such symbolism as Paul often would. The bassist could find the only drop of water in the middle of the Sahara desert if given the chance. Finding the best concealed within the worst had never been a foreign concept to him.

“Don’t be like that, Geo,” Paul insisted, laughing still, “We’re jus’ ‘aving a bit of fun.”

“At me own expense!” George skeptically went on, “I reckon y’think I’m a clown!”

“Well, y’do look the part…” John idly remarked from beside him, “Slap a big red nose on yer and you’ve a new job post-Beatle. Personally, I wouldn’t pay to see ye’, but _someone_ might.”

And the laughter started up again.

With Lennon’s condescending tone ringing clear through George’s ears, the lead guitarist turned to him, ready to unleash upon him his fiercest glare yet. The effort fell short; however, as the feat would’ve been more effective, had the rhythm guitarist even been looking at him.

Gaze fixated out the window, John seemed disconnected. As though the belittling conversation he was having was with someone else entirely. An invisible someone outside the plane that no one could see but himself.

Harrison wasn’t one to be deterred, nonetheless. He may have been regarded as the ‘quiet’ one but at least he knew to open his mouth when it entirely counted. “Yer one to talk, Lennon,” he retorted, speaking to the back of the rhythm guitarist’s auburn head.

“Am I?” Lennon turned towards him finally, complete apathy glazing his eyes over, “And why is that, Havva? I look a right joke to yer?”

“Y’right look—” he trailed off, searching his mind for any quip he could readily assert. Anything to get back at the troublesome rhythm guitarist as he often would whenever the two went toe to toe, “I s’ppose y’look…”

“…Stupid in me coat and hat? _Fat,_ y’ _twit_?” The older Beatle provided in place of the silence that had befallen George. He narrowed his eyes on the band’s youngest, daring him to say the wrong thing.

And George shrank away for what felt like the sake of his own safety, having been unsure of how to properly navigate this unusual turn of events. Completely serious and callous as portrayed by his stony face, Lennon no longer seemed as though he was larking about. And George began to wonder if he’d actually ever been. This now seemed a personal matter for the older musician; a bit too heavy really, for Harrison’s immediate understanding.

“John… you all right?” Paul hesitantly interjected, blatantly aware of the mood change and concerned with the suddenness of its occurrence.

John’s lack of response spoke volumes. _‘I’m not all right,’_ George could almost hear from the venomous likes of Lennon’s eyes, _‘I’m bloody outraged!’_

At this newfound yet unconfirmed revelation, the lead guitarist found himself subject to another frown. He’d only been trying to stand his ground, maybe crack a joke to lighten his own mood and show that he wasn’t really browned off at his mates. Stepping on toes had been the last thing he’d been trying to accomplish. Leave it to Lennon to find offense where offense didn’t exist.

“Aw come off it and leave ‘im be, John,” Ringo hastily cut in, his own wariness growing in the face of the unfurling scene, “He doesn’t think any of those things.”

But the rhythm guitarist was already up in arms for reasons unknown, “Let me ‘ear it from ‘is own _gob_ , then!” he sneered menacingly.

“John Lennon, _stop_!” Paul asserted, raising his voice only slightly but applying much emphasis where it belonged, “Yer being _irrational!_ ”

“Yeah, John, I’m sorry!” George apprehensively put in, equally eager to stop things in their tracks before they could somehow escalate even further out of control.

And John froze; Paul’s truth as well as George’s pathetic apology managing to settle his unruly world into stabilizing perspective. What had been maddening about it all was that somehow… he hadn’t been able to help himself even a little bit. While he’d _known_ he’d been entering the darkened corridor of irrationality… While he’d _known_ he’d been unfairly targeting their youngest, he _hadn’t_ been able to bring himself to stop. He _hadn’t_ been able to bring himself to _care_ even… It was as though the rhythm guitarist had been locked out of his own body, and all he could bare to do was watch himself as he spiraled out of control like the madman that he was quickly becoming. Fucking hell… Why couldn’t he even manage the simple concept of keeping up with his own moods? Why couldn’t he any longer seem to control himself? Why was this _always_ happening? And why was it _always_ happening to him? This _had_ to be the starting point on the road to insanity. If so, Lennon was certain he’d be in a straightjacket before the week was up.

Remorse moving in to overtake him, John dropped his gaze to his lap. “No…” he murmured finally, his tone oddly quiet, apologetic, “No… _I’m_ sorry, Havva… I-I’m not really sure what’s come over me, really…” Rubbing his forehead now, he guilty turned his face away from perceptive eyes, his wearied gaze finding solace in the window once more.

“Sure yer all right, John?” Paul could be heard asking.

John pretended he didn’t hear.

 _‘How hard would it be to break such a window open,’_ he wondered vaguely as his mind proceeded to wander. Perhaps, he should give it a shot and toss himself out. He imagined the Beatles’ lives would be easier to handle if he could…manage such a thing… They’d be rid of his temper. That’s for sure. Squeezing his eyes shut, the singer and songwriter forcibly drove away the impending twisted thoughts struggling to take up residence within him before they could grab permanent hold. Such dark contemplation scared the wits out of him. These weren’t proper thoughts for one to be having. This wasn’t right. _He_ wasn’t right. Not at all…

He rubbed distractedly at his forehead once more with his good hand before dropping it to the bridge of his nose which he proceeded to rub and then pinch tightly between his thumb and forefinger. The headache, he’d been _luckily_ graced with earlier in the day, had yet to go away. And though he’d taken a handful of aspirin, the only thing affected by the painkilling agents was the immense throbbing emanating from his wounded hand. He was certain he would need to eat something sooner or later too because the gnawing, burning ache in his stomach—a sure factor of food-deprivation had long since evolved into an equally annoying and attention-commanding churning mess. And as a result, he actually felt sick. Nauseous sick. And overwhelmingly dizzy. The dizziness came in spurts and even threatened him while sitting; a strange and disconcerting new development to the already present misery. Twice, John had had to run to the bathroom desperate to relieve himself of the god-awful feeling. And twice he’d failed as there was hardly even enough bile within him to bring up. He’d dry-heaved until his stomach muscles ached… and oddly enough, he only felt worse. No wonder he was so unreasonably ornery.

Initially, sleep had seemed like the only escape… But… it was hard to sleep when one was so hungry and so… cold. And so nauseated. And so dizzy… And so bloody irritated. Nothing made sense. But then again, nothing had made sense for the past several years…

His eyes still closed, he weakly began the act of massaging his aching forehead once again. With each movement following a prolonged effort, he began to feel somewhat shakier and shakier as though his body were protesting its own use on so few calories. Christ, he was miserable. When would it end? How could he end it? ‘ _Eat_!’ his stomach screamed. _Break the cycle!_ Chances were if he ate, his relieved stomach, warm and content, would feel better; in turn helping him to feel better as a whole. And he could potentially cross hungry, nauseous, and cold off the list, thus ending all his problems, right? Easier said than done and seemingly unlikely. Eating would only serve to start up the most vicious cycle of all. The one he’d been trapped in for several months too many now. It would only fuel his unhappiness, leading him to eat all the more in hopes of filling a limitless void, which in turn would only lead to more unhappiness. _‘Break the cycle,’_ John internally snorted. Break one cycle, get sucked into another. Was this what his life had come down to?

“Headache, John?”

It took the rhythm guitarist almost a whole several seconds to realize that the question asked was not a mere product of his own head but a verbal contribution courtesy of Paul.

And it took several more seconds for his eyes to finally convey to his wishes and seek out the direction the bassist’s unanticipated voice had originated from. As long as it took, however, when he finally completed the action, he was immediately sorry he’d chosen to do so. Paul’s perceptive eyes portraying unnecessary concern were fixated on him. Paul who’d done nothing for the past several days but watch him like a hawk.

His own eyes immediately glazed over as he proceeded to take the bassist in, chasing out all forms of initial surprise within them. “Can’t keep yer eyes off me, can ye’, _Macca_?” he responded finally, coldly, derisively; seeking to gain control of what he could of the situation. Seeking to gain control of _anything_ for that matter. “Perhaps yer more like Brian than we all thought. If y’fancy a shag, its him y’should let on to.”

George stifled a giggle for his own protection. There was no way he’d intentionally provoke McCartney into starting in on him now. Not after Lennon’s earlier display.

Paul’s jaw muscles tightened in a fit of growing exasperation, resulting tension becoming evident in every ounce of his face as he continued to hold John’s impassive gaze, “I asked you a question, Lennon,” he firmly countered, his own gaze somehow remaining calm and unaffected despite the rhythm guitarist’s contemptuous words running through his mind.

John smirked devilishly, humorlessly, an eyebrow arched in feigned interest, “Yes, _love_. What was it?”

“You know damned well, what it was!” Paul countered, exasperation disrupting now any control he had within his voice. Next to him Ringo cringed, turning his attention quickly to his own window and George stiffened looking as though he wished he were anywhere else in the world but stuck helplessly between the headstrong likes of the Lennon-McCartney duo.

“Yer not helping it, y’know,” John indolently responded.

“Helping _what_?”

“The size of Ringo’s nose,” came Lennon’s sardonic response, sure-fire speed attached, “‘E’ needs help with that thing, y’know. Zookeepers everywhere have been mistaking him for some kind of elephant subspecies.”

And George snickered, this time unable to contain himself.

“‘Ey, I resent that, Lennon!” Ringo spoke up.

No one could be bothered to pay the drummer any mind, Paul especially. Remaining fully serious in the face of his best mate, he strived to let his feelings be known. “That sarcastic streak of yers won’t get ye’ anywhere, son,” he skeptically informed him.

Lennon rolled his eyes, his irritation surfacing all over again, “Neither will yer inattentiveness!” he snapped, “I was on about me _headache_ , y’git… And _yer_ not helping it!! _Christ_! What’d y’ _think_ this was about?!”

“Well, maybe if you’d jus’ _eat_ like a normal person…” Paul pointedly suggested, putting much emphasis in his statement, “It would go away, then!”

Ringo sternly turned to face Lennon right then. Despite the lack of eye-contact with him, he’d been silently following the conversation all the while. “Have you _still_ not eaten, John?” he disapprovingly inquired, his blue eyes sweeping over the younger Beatle in ongoing scrutiny. Without waiting for the answer he was almost certain he wasn’t going to get, he turned away, his eyes scanning the aisle dividing Lennon and McCartney, leading towards the front of the plane. A pretty stewardess was slowly making her way down the aisle offering edible delights to all she passed. What perfect timing she demonstrated. “The snack cart is on its way,” he pointed out, “Y’better help yerself if y’know what’s good fer yer.”

Paul nodded his agreement.

John no longer had the will to respond, he felt that miserable. As the cart drew closer, however, offering apples, peanuts, pretzels, and the like, he subconsciously made the committed decision to give in finally to everyone’s wishes and shut them up once and for all. After watching George grab every edible thing he could get his skinny hands on, he settled for an apple, deeming it as the healthiest and possibly most filling choice. Surely one apple should easily be manageable.

“Aye, so you’ve decided t’listen t’me after all!” Paul affirmed, smirking smugly at him as he worked to tear open a bag of peanuts, “I’m right after all! Let’s ‘ear it, then!”

John shot him a look. _‘Like hell, he’d hear it!’_ No bleedin’ way he’d let on to a swelled-headed McCartney that he was right and had been right all along. Choosing to ignore the bassist’s looming presence in all completeness, he took his first bite. The delicious, crisp, crunch filled his ears, preceding the resulting splash of juicy tartness as it graced his tongue. Hunger took over almost immediately, at the command of his intrigued stomach and before he knew it, more than half the apple was devoured in what seemed to be a matter of seconds. In all his glory, he’d forgotten all about his surroundings. He’d forgotten about… everyone in his immediate vicinity. George, Paul, Ringo… those were a lot of potential witnesses to such gluttony… John didn’t even have to turn towards them to know that they were all staring at him, wide-eyed and all, disgust probably written all over every ounce of their collective faces.

“Blimey, John,” George piped up right then, confirming the beliefs of the rhythm guitarist. His nasal tone saturated with incredulity, all but added comfort, “When was the last time you’ve eaten? …I mean _truly_ eaten?”

Suddenly disillusioned, John brought the apple away from his lips and set it down on the tray he’d been offered along with the snack. Suddenly he felt sick all over again. _‘Too much, too fast,’_ his stomach grumbled resentfully by way of protest. John swallowed hard as a consequent fit of nausea flirted with his insides. “This morning, remember?” he croaked softly, ceasing to look at his mate as he managed to answer his question, despite the hellish feeling creeping up on him.

Paul crossed his arms over his chest in that stern manner he’d often resort to when the life of an unformulated opinion, he was working to solidify, was at stake. “Before or _after_ yer impromptu bath?” he skeptically demanded, challenge evident in his tone, “Because I ‘onestly can’t say I remember such a thing.”

John shrugged, his demeanor yielding further disengagement with the conversation. His stomach churned unhappily. “Well… that’s _yer_ problem, love.”

“If I recall correctly, you disappeared shortly after filling yer plate,” Paul pieced together, bringing to light the matter that he’d been wishing to discuss for quite some time now, “I remember that much because I then had the displeasure of watching George consume _everything_ on his plate before starting in on _yers_!”

“It was quite good too!” George filled in unnecessarily with a grin, “Shame t’let it all go t’waste, really…”

“Right. I forgot,” John mumbled, clumsily, truly looking as though he was struggling to remember. Still he couldn’t remember much that had transpired between sitting down at the kitchen table that morning and ending up in the bathtub… Still it bothered him… “Guess that explains me hunger, then,” he concluded absently. He then impatiently proceeded to wave away the bassist as though continuing to dwell on such a matter wasn’t important and therefore not worthy of conversation. In truth it wasn’t… All this talk about food wasn’t helping his insides any… Nor was it putting his mind at ease.

Paul continued to stare at him, his mouth slightly agape, his hazel eyes filled to the brim with an overflowing supply of incredulity mixed with exasperation, “So that’s it, then?” he asked, “That’s that?”

“Me memory’s not me strong suit, as it turns out,” John added lazily in the form of a forced quip. To disarm anymore concern aimed at him, he smirked in the face of his statement, “But at least I still got me health!” What an ironic statement for one to make when so nauseous…

“Do ye’?” Paul abruptly questioned, his eyes continuing to probe John’s very soul it seemed like, “Do y’still have yer health? Because looking at the way you’ve been acting lately, I _beg_ to differ…”

 _McCartney_ … Always acting like he knew him better than he knew himself. There was a _name_ for people like that. “I’m fucking _fine_ , Paul,” John growled with such sudden and unexpected vehemence, the bassist couldn’t help but jump back in surprise, “When I bloody well admitted to feeling overwhelmed earlier, that wasn’t an invitation fer yer t’move in on me personal space as me own personal psychotherapist!! Haven’t we gone over this already?”

Again, Ringo found comfort in his window, while George shrank down in his seat, concentrating on his array of snacks.

“Well, I can’t help but worry, John!” Paul plaintively sighed.

“Well, stop! ‘S’waste of energy, y’know… a right waste of ti…” John’s stomach thrown completely off course by his explosive temper, shifted tumultuously into reverse, bringing his words to an untimely end. He stood up suddenly, convulsively swallowing back bile all the while and eased himself past George en route to the aisle.

“Where are you off to now?” Paul sharply demanded, deciding he was all but finished with the discussion he’d initiated.

“Loo…” John managed to choke out.

“ _Again_?” Paul bluntly questioned, indicating that Lennon hadn’t been the only one keeping track. He looked up at him, concern burning out the anger he’d initially felt, “Feeling all right, then?”

“Nerves…” was John’s only response. He was off before anything more could be said on his behalf.

 _Nerves_ … Paul wasn’t entirely convinced. Usually Lennon’s nerves would surface minutes before a pending show. He’d get sick once as a result and be fine. This wasn’t that. He was sure of it… With this thought in mind, he rose from his seat without an explanatory word to his mates and trailed the rhythm guitarist to the bathroom. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt he needed to get to the bottom of whatever this was and soon… It felt strangely as though everything near and dear to him in the world depended on it…

Of course, there was always that tiny chance that maybe he was overanalyzing things thus overreacting as a result… but one could never be too careful where John Lennon was concerned. _That_ was a known fact.

Gathering all the confidence he could find, McCartney gradually made his way up to the bathroom door and cautiously knocked on it.

There was a pause before a seemingly breathless voice permeated the closed off entryway. “Jus’ a minute…”

Paul frowned. He sounded rather hoarse… And he was practically whispering. Very un-Lennon-like.

Jolted into full consciousness by the untimely knock at the door, Lennon groaned as he lifted his head finally from the toilet seat it had been resting on. This was his third time throwing up on this bloody plane ride. This was getting ridiculous. Bloody old. Fast. It was clear his body didn’t know _what_ it wanted. All he knew was that the thought of eating… ever again… was becoming less and less appealing by the moment. _‘Good too,_ ’ his mind poisonously contributed, _‘Serves a fat Beatle right.’_

He did feel better though, having emptied his stomach properly. Sure he was still tired… Sure he was dizzy… and cold… and a little petulant… but the nausea had subsided, no less. Strange… He began to wonder how much of this was psychosomatic. How much of this was potentially in his head. Had his body learned to ward itself against food? No of course not. The mere thought of that was just plain absurd.

Lennon rose shakily to his feet and went through the usual method of cleaning himself up post-vomit. He dared one glance in the mirror and regretted doing so on instance. He looked like absolute shite. Everything about his appearance screamed out: _‘Help me, I’m stressed! I’m falling apart!’_ Dark-circles beneath his eyes indicated a lack of sleep. Lackluster eyes and pale skin indicated the lack of energy associated with a lack of sleep. Searching for hope in the sea of desolation that was his face, he tried on his best smile. It shone wan at best. John sighed. He wasn’t fooling anyone today. It was no wonder everyone thought he looked ill. It was no wonder everyone seemed keen on coming to his bloody rescue. It was like looking at a ghost, his reflection was. His newly acquired eating habits couldn’t have been helping either. Lennon frowned. He’d have to find a way to take care of this before the press found a new way to torment him. _‘John Lennon, the Newly-Proclaimed Ghostly Beatle,’_ the headlines would announce, complete with the subtitle: _‘Judging by his Looks, He May as well be Dead!’_

Disenchantment evident, John reluctantly reached for the doorknob and yanked it open, nearly jumping back at once as he was met instantaneously by none other than Paul McCartney. What the— _He_ was the one who’d been easing in on his privacy?

“Listening in on me bathroom habits now, Macca?” Lennon demanded, his voice quavering unnaturally under the initial weight of his surprise despite the snide tone he tried to convey. Christ, hadn’t he left the stupid bassist behind in his seat? What was he _doing_ here? Outside the bloody loo of all _places_? Had he heard him vomiting? Was he going to question him about it? What words could he construct to properly deter him?

Paul faltered, realizing he hadn’t yet made an effort to weave together a story regarding his intentions. The truth would certainly do more harm than good in this situation. “I uh… needed the loo, as well…” he blurted out, his brain pulling through with the most logical response it could think up.

John rubbed tiredly at his eyes and at his forehead once more. A slight wince of pain permeated his features subsequently. “Oh well… have at it then…” he mumbled, his words tumbling out as hoarse and worn as they had sounded through the door. He started to push past Paul only to be stopped in his tracks. A common theme for the day it seemed.

“John…” Paul clasped a hand firmly around his arm and guided him back slightly so he could get a good look at his face… in the raw. The guitarist didn’t look great, to say the least. Not to mention that tackling him shouldn’t have been so easy. The bassist frowned at this. “Are you _really_ all right?” he asked, “…off the record?”

Caught off guard by the entire feat constructed by his friend, John didn’t have time to throw his usual façade back into play. He floundered about like a fish out of water, his incapacitated mind incapable of forming the right answers. “Wh-what… are we on about…?” he mumbled finally, resorting to crossness as a means for covering up his enhanced confusion.

Paul stood his ground. “I think you know.”

In the following blink of an eye, confusion dissipated and the known façade that had been lost seconds ago, clicked finally into place like a second skin as did sense regarding the entire presenting situation. “… _Off_ the record…” the rhythm guitarist scoffed derisively, “Right…” Tilting his head back slightly, he looked McCartney directly in the eye, his gaze trailing down the bridge of his own nose in supreme condescension. “Let me tell y’somethin’, _McCharmly_ ,” he growled, tone dangerously low, “ _Nothin’_ is _ever_ off the soddin’ record. Jus’ ask the press.”

“Well I’m _not_ them, the press!” Paul declared, refusing to be put off by his mate’s frightening display of distrust, “‘S’only me, y’know! It’s _Macca_! We could sit… ‘ave a proper chat… get to the bottom of things…” He tightened his grip on John’s arm hoping the power of touch would further relay forth his message.

Reacting with ample haste, John made a show of struggling to twist out from the bassist’s grip. “Not now…Paul,” he sighed defeatedly, averting his eyes to the floor, “ _Please_ …”

“But y’know y’can trust me, don’t you?” Paul pressed on, moving his face into his mate’s line of vision, “I realize a lot has changed with us, with the band… but I’ll be damned if our ability to trust each other should fall into such a category.”

“I know, love…” For that split second of time, Lennon’s hardened gaze softened. But within the following second, the look was gone as though it had never been intended to see the light of day. “Jus’ sod off, will ye’, then?” he suddenly sneered shoving Paul’s hand away, “Everything’s fine. I’m jus’ tired. ‘S’all it is… _Trust_ me on this.”

As he walked away, Paul thought he even looked a bit dizzy in stance. The bassist heaved a sigh of defeat as he watched him disappear down the aisle. Just what was it that was going on with his mate already? Was it the stress finally breaking him? Was it something more? Was it something less? Something less would be wonderfully welcome. But such chances seemed highly unlikely given the circumstances. Lennon was locked up like a fortress, moat and all… This hardly seemed like nothing. _‘I’m jus’ tired. ‘S’all it is… Just a headache… ‘s’all it is…’_ Stupid John. Didn’t he know that he was on to him? Didn’t he _know_ that he _knew_ him far better than he sometimes knew himself? Best mates often did. And as a result, neither had _ever_ been completely able to deceive the other in any way or form. Stemming from the very start of their long-term friendship, this fact wasn’t about to change. _‘Trust_ me on this… _’_ And for the rhythm guitarist to lie like that to his face, it was obvious he was crying out more than initially realized. Regardless of whether or not his songwriting partner even knew, Lennon needed him. And McCartney wasn’t about to let him down.

By the time McCartney returned to his seat after deciding he really _did_ need the bathroom, the small plane had begun the detailed act of landing. One glance out the window at the rapidly advancing scenery provided him with the day’s first look of Los Angeles’ airport and surrounding congested landscape. And he was surprised to find that unlike their last visit sometime in 1964, there wasn’t a screaming fan in sight. Just security… and… more security.

Resultantly distraught and even a bit disheartened by the odd and unexpected twist of events, he hastily tore his gaze away from the window, his brows furrowed in confusion and a near hint of panic. “Where are all our fans?” he asked aloud to no one in particular, “Where’s the welcoming committee?”

Ringo stifled a yawn before smacking his lips, “I reckon this is all there is,” he calmly speculated, as Paul peered anxiously over his shoulder, “Rather strange, really… ‘S’not much of a welcome at all.”

“Get on!” George drawled, mouth full of peanuts, “I think they look right happy t’see us! Guards are people too, Rings!”

But Ringo refused to be swayed, “I still reckon that Los Angeles must’ve grown smaller since our last visit. Or maybe they don’t like us.”

Paul looked thoughtful, then amused by Ringo’s theory. “All these defenses would seem a bit overkill then, don’t y’think?” he asked.

The plane jolted slightly as it hit the ground and taxied forward several yards at a time.

“It’s more likely that our fans have been diverted, y’know,” George proposed, sounding in those few words, years wiser than all of them combined. He then grinned cheekily, “I heard it from Mal earlier.”

“So yer not a know-all, then,” Paul stated, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him.

“I don’t know, I’d like t’think that I am!” George argued, “I jus’ rely on external sources as the basis fer me knowledge!”

Ringo laughed.

Towards the front of the plane, Mal, Brian, and Ira conversed animatedly, most likely planning ahead and attempting to figure out how to navigate from there on out. John looked on languidly before taking in the outdoor scenery once more. Mid-gaze, he closed his eyes, his stomach growling mournfully. He was dizzy again… When he reopened his eyes, hazy black spots were where his vision should’ve been. A distant buzzing filled his ears… Acting fast, he squeezed his eyes shut, against the unanticipated onslaught of faintness and leaned his head protectively against the window.

“John…” George could be heard calling out to him.

Hesitantly, he cracked an eye open and glanced back towards him, head still plastered to the window. The black spots had cleared somewhat now but ongoing haziness continued to soften the appearance of everything, “What?” he murmured.

“All right, then?” the lead guitarist asked. He looked genuinely worried and John felt even more remorse for being such an arse to him earlier.

He nodded in response, ever so subtly, managing a weak, assuring grin, “Knackered…” _‘Knackered over this life is more like it…’_ his mind unnecessarily supplied, _‘_ … _aren’t you, fat Beatle, John?...Who are you trying to kid?’_ And John’s face abruptly fell courtesy of his own mind. Disconsolate, he turned away from Harrison’s prying eyes, blinking rapidly as a tiny tears dared to spring into action.

“Come ‘ead, lads!” Brian’s voice rose suddenly from the depths of the faded background, “Ready yourselves, for we’ve officially arrived in glamorous and posh Los Angeles, home of the stars! America’s pride and joy so to speak!”

“Cor, ‘e sounds like a bloody brochure, ‘e does!” Ringo whispered to Paul.

Making an effort to hide his antics, Paul discreetly laughed.

“Look alive, now,” Eppy continued on, sounding as animated as ever, “…because Los Angeles… or L.A. as Americans call it, has been eagerly anticipating your arrival for days! Weeks even!! A lot is in store, here! Surely, you’d _hate_ to disappoint!”

John shook his head in utmost disgust. It was truly shaping up to be another day in paradise.


End file.
